


Beyond The Spotlight

by arrow_through_my_writers_block



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Also features Dad!Oliver and I know everyone wants that right?, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Alternate Universe - Popstar, Assassins & Hitmen, Bodyguard, Death Threats, Drama, Drama & Romance, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Felicity Smoak is stubborn, Gen, Hate to Love, Mystery, Oliver Queen is a hardass, Protection, Romance, Training, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2018-11-07 20:57:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 29,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11067006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arrow_through_my_writers_block/pseuds/arrow_through_my_writers_block
Summary: Bodyguard/Popstar AU. Felicity Smoak is music's hottest star. But when her fame and deeply hidden secrets breed threats to her life that cannot be ignored, she hires Oliver Queen. As her new head of security/pet bodyguard, their personalities clash. Can he protect her from the many unknown enemies from her past that hunt her, or will her intriguing complexities and his own developing feelings be a detriment to them both?





	1. First Impressions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! This is the first chapter of the story I've been writing for the Olicity Fic Bang 2017! I hope you enjoy it! The covers were made by the lovely @victori96572376 over on Twitter! Check her out because her fanfic covers are AMAZING!

 

* * *

 

Felicity’s fingers tremble as she grips the letter, each word shooting out at her like hateful bullets. Each one represents her past insecurities and the words repeated and retweeted all over the Internet from trolls and angry masses. Tears sting and burn her eyes, hot and clinging to her lashes; she’s glad she wiped away her makeup before delving into the newest pile of fan mail.

 And it had started out normal. Young girls letting her know exactly how much her music and words have inspired them. But this letter, this crude written attack, is too much for her to handle. She glances up and into the vanity mirror, eyes lined red behind her glasses and bottom lip quivering between her attempts at soothing breaths. A low, fearful whimper leaves her throat, pathetic and everything she is not.

 She’s not weak. She’s not easily frightened. But the words are there, bright and etched into the page with aggressive strokes of the pen.

  **Fat cow, your vanity looks like a lovely place to blow your brains out. Will your fans still love you when you’re dead?**

 It is dark outside beyond the glass of her bedroom window, but it is clear as day that someone is blotting out the minimal light that usually trickles in. She is frozen. A mannequin displaying furniture to interested buyers. She is a sitting duck for the hater who penned the disgrace in her hand.

 “No,” she begs, much too low for someone on the opposite side of the glass to hear. But it isn’t enough.

 There’s a flash and then an echoing bang. She waits for the pain to begin, but it doesn’t. Instead, the mirror she is looking through shatters, a ripping cascade from a single point of impact. She spins in her stool and sees the culprit. A tall, oily haired man with dark eyes and a gun shaking in his hand, smoke billowing out of the barrel. The window is gone from the force of the bullet.

 Felicity screams and it is mere seconds after that Rory appears and tackles the intruder. “How!?” he asks the intruder. “How did you get in!? How did you do this!?”

 “I’m not the only one.”

 

\---

 

Her manager, Caitlin, is a blubbering mess in the meeting the next day, constantly crying and panicking as they relay the events to John Diggle, co-founder of _Diggle & Michaels Security Solutions _. They are the only company Felicity will work with and John shows great patience in all meetings, regardless of the hysterics shown by his clients. She considers him a close friend, nearly a brother.

“We have no idea how anyone got through the gate or past Holt’s cameras and motion detectors,” Caitlin says, voice a shaking waver every few syllables.

“Technology is not the most reliable form of defense, Miss Snow,” Digg reminds them. “Even if Miss Smoak and Mr. Holt put their trust in them.” He winks goodnaturedly in Felicity’s direction, making her smile.

“Then what do you have in mind?” Felicity asks. The light trickling into the formal living room through the sheer curtains is soft and bright, warming and reflecting in Digg’s eyes as he ponders her question. He’s clearly hopeful - confident. And if he is that hopeful, it lightens the fear she feels.

“I have an employee. He’s relatively new but his expertise is leaps and bounds above your current staff.” Digg pulls a file folder out of his backpack and hands it to Felicity. The name on the tab catches her eyes and triggers her curiosity: _Oliver Queen_ . “He’s not much for tech solutions. He’s much more… _hands on_.”

“Hands on?” Felicity and Caitlin ask in unison.

“He’s a weapons expert and proficient in all forms of armed and unarmed combat. He takes great pride in training for self-defense and situational awareness. Your team could benefit from having him heading the game.”

Felicity’s brows shoot up at the implications, eyes flickering toward the door knowing Curtis is on the other side, guarding but also listening. “You want to replace Curtis?”

Digg smiles, sincere. “Not replacing. Simply adding to your arsenal. Oliver would work _with_ Curtis to improve your defense in every area.”

Felicity nods, then opens the folder. She is greeted by a pair of smoldering blue eyes and firm lips pressed into a stern line. From the width of his shoulders, she can tell he’s built well - toned and sculpted in the perfect depiction of a fairy tale protector. His hair is short, sticking up only slightly with an obvious smidge of product at the tips. But it is the impression she gets from his eyes that seals the deal. Coldness. Purpose. A clear note of discipline and joy in that discipline.

She closes the file without reading any of the bullet points on his resume. “He sounds perfect,” she says decidedly, handing the file back to Digg. He nods and they finalize the initial introductions.

“Tomorrow, then?”

She nods. “I have rehearsal tomorrow but we can have him meet and start training the new team tomorrow. The room is big enough for both.”

As they all part ways, she smirks. Her rehearsal and the new security training will take place in the same room, and she plans on seeing exactly what kind of man Oliver Queen is.

 

\---

 

Oliver gets the call in the middle of his routine. He barely hears the buzz of his cell phone over the thundering music he has playing and the thrumming of his pulse. But a momentary lull in the song makes it clear and he rushes over, flexing his fingers out of the fist he holds. He shuts off the music, the silence shocking after the aggressive rhythms of the album and repetitive pounding of his fists on leather bags.

“This is Oliver,” he says, ignoring the caller I.D. - only a few people have his number and none of them surprise him. He shifts to speakerphone and drops it back down on the table.

“Oliver, I have an assignment for you.” John Diggle’s voice is direct and to-the-point, as he has come to request of his quasi-boss.

“I’m listening.” He tugs at the training tape on his hand, unraveling it as John begins to divulge information.

“Have you heard of the artist Felicity Smoak?”

Oliver remains silent. The name doesn’t ring a bell, and he doesn’t care to look it up.

“I’ll take that as a negative. Well, she’s been receiving a disturbing amount of death threats. Emails. Letters. Texts. The whole deal. But last night, a gunman broke through her security and very nearly took her out. Cops got the perp but are saying he’s not mentally capable of withstanding interrogation or trial. She’s rattled and has agreed to tougher protocol - anything to keep her safe. I recommended you and she’s interested.”

Oliver rolls his eyes. “So a self-absorbed popstar nearly dies and now she cares about more safety?”

“She has a great security team, but something must be lacking. I think your expertise is _exactly_ what she needs.”

Oliver looks around, mulling over Diggle’s words and imagining the possibilities of the job he’s lining up. “I go from protecting diplomats in foreign countries and alleged drug lords to _this_?”

Over the phone, he hears Diggle’s low chuckle. “You know all of that is why I recommend you to everyone, right? Listen, I’m not bullshitting here. I’ll send over the files, including the letter she received last night just before the hit. I know you’ll change your mind.”

The call ends and Oliver sighs. He knows he will take the job - there’s not a question in his mind or hint of hesitation. But his past is deep and dark and full of all the terrors most people hope to never witness. He pulls on a gray hoodie and collapses into the chair at his work station in the corner of the room. He waits there, sipping ice cold water from a bottle he had left there, untouched. The moment he hears the beep of a new email, he opens it. The files only take a few seconds to load and then he’s immersed in a chaotic assortment of news articles, blueprints and photographs.

Felicity is gorgeous - the kind of woman one might expect to be something famous. Wholesome. Smiley. A light even in the darkest of images. A few files feature videos from her concerts and he listens with interest, hearing the passion she puts into each lyric. She is captivating, despite the genre she claims as her own.

He moves onto the blueprints for her mansion and the grounds surrounding it. He memorizes each nook and cranny, all the little places someone might hide. He studies the experience and certifications of every member of her security team. _Lackluster at best, but I can fix that._

The last file he opens is a scan of the letter. A hastily pieced together, murderous note straight out of Stalker Killers 101. Letter cut and pasted from numerous publications of all kinds, it rings out with an obsessive detachment - the work of someone that longs for nearness but can’t step too closely. He can see a small discoloration in the center of the letter. The tell tale sign of tears shed.

Oliver reads the words over and over, studying them as he has every other list and file and photo. He lets the words sink in, their meaning plain and clear. Obnoxiously so.

Within minutes, he has Diggle on the phone. “I’ll do it.”

“Fantastic. Can you be there tomorrow?”

“Of course,” Oliver grunts out, then frowns. “But I need to know one thing before this becomes official…”

“And that is?”

“She’s willing to do whatever it takes, right? No questions. No objections. No fighting me.”

“That’s what she’s told me,” Diggle says, then lets out a small huff of a chuckle. “But you know how women can be.”

“All I know is she better take this seriously.”

“I’ll talk to her again. Be at her place in the morning at ten. Her head of security will be waiting for you and the team will be there for introductions and any training you require.”

He ends the call and drops the phone onto the desk. He eyes the letter for a moment and then scrubs his hand over his face, the impending stress already crawling in and finding residence. He slams his fist down and the screen flickers and his cell hops with the force. “ _Fuck_ ,” he mumbles in irritation. “I’m now some popstar’s bodyguard.”

 

\---

 

He walks in, confident and steady. As always. He never lets his guard down and he never lets his nervousness show - years of training had taken that habit away. The mansion is larger than he expected when John had called him with the new assignment - slick and modern with plenty of windows and balconies. Three stories. He is told the first floor is specifically designated for a gym and rehearsal hall and that he will meet the security staff there for evaluation and training. John’s words swim in his mind, giving him little faith in his new teammates. “They aren’t the most agile bunch, and the majority rely on tech to solve problems,” Digg had warned. Oliver takes a deep breath and gives the entryway a once over.

No security at the door. No cameras facing the door. Nothing. No one is there to greet him. He waits for a bit, marveling at the absurdity. It is too open and too easy to access, all the windows open and the door unlocked. _No wonder someone got past them._

He hears footsteps drawing near from down the hall and he stands at attention, waiting. Around the corner appears a tall African-American man with a wide smile and bright, easy going eyes. Oliver reaches a hand out to the man’s own outstretched one. “Curtis Holt?” Oliver guesses.

The man nods. “That’s correct! And you must be Oliver Queen. So nice to meet you! Thanks for doing this.”

Oliver keeps their hands locked and stares Curtis down. “Normally I would say there’s no need to thank me but I can clearly tell there’s a hell of a lot to get done around here.”

Curtis snaps back, his hand ripping from Oliver’s grasp. “Oh?” It is clear he’s offended.

“Yes. I just _walked_ in. No one was here guarding the door and look,” he says, pointing toward the ceiling, “there are no cameras pointing at the door.”

Curtis stares at the ceiling, dumbfounded. “Oh. Wow.”

Oliver blinks away his amusement. “Yeah. _Wow_. You want to protect Miss Smoak but frankly… you’re doing a really shitty job at it.”

Oliver watches Curtis’ ego deflate, looking as though he were physically shrinking.

Oliver steps forward and pats him on the shoulder. “I’m sorry for the bluntness. But I’m really here to help.”

“Right,” Curtis says, voice tight to match the stiffness of his shoulders. “I’ll just lead you to the rehearsal hall. The rest of the main team is there waiting.”

“Main team?”

Curtis nods. “Rene and Rory… and myself. We’re Felicity’s personal guards. The rest are grounds.”

Oliver frowns. “I’ll need to meet with the grounds security one by one afterwards.”

“Sure thing.”

Oliver studies Curtis’ demeanor as they walk, seeing his body language and spacial awareness, finding very little in the way of defensiveness and more in personality and cheeriness. He’s the member of the team who is relied on for levity - for comfort in the face of chaos. Oliver knows he’ll have to make considerable changes to this team, and he also knows changes will be fought against tooth and nail.

As they finally make their way into the rehearsal hall, he finds the other two members of her personal guards. He doesn’t take a moment for traditional introductions, he simply moves to the equipment he had delivered a few hours earlier and eyes the two men, both polar opposites.

The youngest is unassuming and awkward, perfect for undercover operations. He stares at Oliver with nervously wide eyes and fidgeting hands. Obviously Rory. The other - slightly older in appearance - stares at Oliver in challenge, posture stiff yet careless. Obviously Rene. _There’s always one,_ Oliver thinks as he sheds his hoodie and tosses it to the floor.

“I’m not gonna waste time on senseless introductions or bullshit posturing. I’m here to make sure your employer doesn’t get a bullet in her skull.”

“We have that taken care of,” Rene grumbles as he crosses his arms dismissively.

“Do you?” Oliver asks, stepping closer in an attempt to incite some sense of intimidation.

Rene does not back down but steps forward, toe to toe with Oliver. “She ain’t dead yet, is she?”

Oliver leans forward, face inches from Rene’s and he can see the small movement Rene makes to retract - to escape the nearness. “I don’t think your employer would appreciate that sort of attitude, Mr. Ramirez.”

Rene shakes his head. “You don’t know jack-shit about her, Mr. Queen.”

“Hey, guys,” Curtis steps into the fray, his hands up in defense and brows up in fear. “Maybe we should relax a bit and just get into that training you were talking about.”

They simply continue staring one another down until a feminine throat clears near the entrance of the rehearsal hall. Oliver turns and sees the source of his newfound agitation and inflated bank account. Felicity Smoak. Pop Goddess. “Sorry to interrupt,” she says, a mixture of meekness and sass. “But I have a performance to rehearse for.”

She’s in fitted active wear, black and bright pink, hair in a ponytail that whips back and forth as she walks further into the room, followed by a collection of dancers and a choreographer. She commands attention and begs for invisibility all at once. It is in the sway of her hips and the concerned furrow of her brow. It is in the challenging set of her shoulders and the frown on her lips. She is a muddle of complexity - positives and negatives battling to overcome a single being. He can see it all in only a few moments, a few movements. It reaffirms the need for his presence.

Oliver nods. “As long as we can have part of this hall, Miss Smoak.”

She shrugs. “Just don’t get in our way.”

“Didn’t plan on it,” Oliver mutters as he shifts his attention back to the three men. “Now, I’d like to assess your reflexes… your reaction time.”

“What does that matter?”

Oliver looks at Rene, already growing irritated with the man’s insistence on being difficult. Rory jabs Rene in warning.

Oliver begins circling the men, his eyes on every detail of their movements. Rory’s twitching fingers. The shift in Curtis’ weight from foot to foot. Rene’s fists clenching. “Your reaction time can mean life or death not just for Miss Smoak, but for each of you.” Oliver moves swiftly and grasps Rory’s arm and flips him onto his back. The young man heaves himself up with a grunt after a few moments in a daze. “If you don’t listen and remain aware of your surroundings, you’re not gonna be effective in protecting Miss Smoak.”

He grips Rene’s shoulder and wrenches him backwards. The man fights back, fist thrusting forward toward Oliver’s face. He easily evades the attack and swipes his leg against Rene’s until he falls with a raucous thud to the floor. The glare Rene shoots to Oliver is deadly, but Oliver simply smiles. “You need to be better. You need to be calculating. You need to guess your opponent’s next move before they do.”

Before he can move onto his next lesson, music floods the hall. It reverberates off the walls and surrounds him every way he turns - deafening him and the other men from the sounds they need to pay attention to. Footsteps. Breathing. Shifts in the air. Oliver looks over to where Felicity Smoak has begun her rehearsal, breaking into the dance moves without hesitation. Aggressive with each turn, sashay and pose, giving a fierceness that she hadn’t shown at her entrance.

Oliver walks over and shuts the sound system down, the sudden silence a shocking relief. He can hear the already ragged breathing of the dancers and their feet moving as Felicity rushes at him, face scrunched in anger. He crosses his arms at his chest and steps in front of the system, a wall of muscle and stubbornness. He can see how it hits her, his presence and authority. It is clear no one tells her what to do, and this interruption has played against the normality she has established.

“Move,” she hisses.

He stares at her, a brow lifting in challenge.

“I said _move_.”

He still doesn’t respond - doesn’t move.

“You work for _me_ , Mr. Queen.” She steps up to him, tiny in comparison, and glares up at him. “Move.”

He leans forward - down - so that their faces are level. “No,” he growls.

“Again, you work for -”

“John Diggle.” Felicity’s mouth remains agape as he speaks. “I do not work for you. I work for John Diggle. He brings me to you, not the other way around.”

Her eyes narrow further. “ _I_ am the one paying you, Mr. Queen. Not John Diggle.”

“I’m still not moving.”

She lets out a frustrated grunt and throws back her head. “I need the music to rehearse.”

“And I need silence to train your security team.”

Oliver knows he’s overstepping. He knows it is her home, her rehearsal hall, her rules. But he also knows that she promised John that she would do whatever it takes to remain safe. And the silence that follows between them makes that abundantly clear. Then she shifts a bit, shoulders relaxing and face softening. “Let me take you to the gym. Its next door but the music shouldn’t be heard there.”

It is those words and that offering that gives him a clue as to what just transpired. _She’s testing me,_ he thinks with a twitch of a grin at the corner of his mouth. _She’s testing my seriousness. My resolve._

He lets her lead the way and he studies her more. She’s confident in her strides but timid in posture as they leave the rehearsal hall and walk to a door at the end of the hallway. She glances at him out of the corner of her eye as she opens the gym door and lets him in, waiting for him to enter before following. The rest of the men join them one by one. She spins around, arms lifting to present the room to them. “All yours. Enjoy your _silence_ ,” she says, mockingly, and leaves the room. But not before giving him one last look before the door closes.

It is a hopeful expression, mixed with pain and terror and all of the things she has faced in the last few months - especially in the last twenty-four hours. And for a moment, he feels nervous and inadequate. _Can she be saved?_

 

\---

 

Felicity enters the gym as the grounds guards trickle out. It is silent, almost cavernous. Oliver is gone but his gear remains, some things packed up while others sit exposed. She sees it all there and is shocked. Plenty of new punching bags and resistance equipment, but her eyes linger on the weapons - weapons of all sorts. Staffs made of different woods and metals of varying lengths, guns of all calibers… and arrows paired with a professional level bow.

She knows Oliver Queen is skilled all over the board - his resume laid everything out in exquisite detail. But seeing the variety is a shock. The most her guards have ever carried were stun guns and batons - nothing lethal. But now the presence of these weapons makes it clear and obvious that the situation calls for a totally different, much more serious approach.

“And you made a total ass of yourself, Smoak!” she scolds herself, embarrassment welling up within her at the memory of the challenge she showed him. So much resistance but no faith.

She bends forward and picks up one of the staffs. It looks like bamboo and has a soft leather wrapped thinly around the center. She swings it about awkwardly, learning its weight and the length in connection to her body and movements.

And with each new motion, an idea springs to mind. Something that she’s never considered. She takes the staff into the rehearsal room and turns on the music - songs that are still begging for choreography and beats that need that extra touch. She swings the staff, works with it and around it. She plants it onto the floor and uses to for leverage to jump and flip, toes pointing and calves flexed with each moment within the air. She twists it over her head and then repeats the entire thing.

A routine forms and she memorizes the sequence and each beat. By the end of her sixth run through the song, she nails it and she collapses onto the floor, heart pounding and body drenched in sweat. She glances at her watch and sees the time: 10:40pm.

She rushes out, replaces the staff amidst Oliver’s gear and then makes her way to the kitchen, stomach growling as her mind races with other ideas.

_Maybe having him around won’t be too bad after all…_

 

\---

 

Training and assessments go well into the evening, each man gaining bruises and hurt egos. Oliver finds his way to his room in the sprawling mansion afterwards. It is one door away from Felicity’s with a door inside joining the two. He ignores the door, hoping it won’t be necessary. His luggage is on the bed waiting, closed and packed full. He has other cases and boxes scattered throughout the room, full of training equipment and firearms. He will make it a point to find places for those first thing in the morning in the gym with the rest of the gear he brought with him. He’s seen what each man in Felicity’s arsenal will be best suited for. Some will like their assignments. Others will not.

He feels his stomach growl just as he looks at the clock on the bedside table. It reads 10:53pm. He hasn’t eaten since breakfast and he’s feeling the emptiness.

He wanders the room, memorizing the layout. Each piece of furniture. Each window. Each wrinkle in the rug or imperfection of the sheets and duvet. He makes a note to request no one enters his room or, more importantly, Felicity’s. He makes another note to get his bedding from home. The ones the household has provided are thick and constricting even to look at - more for show than for function. He wishes he had thought of bringing his own. The thin, plain duvet and the soft dark sheets allow for movement and coolness, a way to feel comfort when the nightmares attack his muscles and drench him in sweat. He takes the duvet off the bed and tosses it on the floor, making a note of where it is in relation to his chosen footpaths.

His stomach rumbles and growls once more, insistent and angry. With a huff of annoyance, he leaves his room and trudges through the dark hallways down to the kitchen. It is pitch black as he enters. Without hesitation, he finds the light switch and turns it on. He hears a squeak of surprise.

At the island in the center of the kitchen, he finds Felicity Smoak seated on a bar stool, a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream clutched protectively to her chest, spoon sprouting from it like a flag of domination. “Sorry, Miss Smoak. I didn’t realize-”

“No, don’t worry,” she interrupts with a shake of her head. “You’re welcome here, well, anywhere in the house really. So, no worries.”

“Okay,” he answers. He makes his way around and goes to the fridge in search of something to eat. He rummages through the shelves and drawers, indecisive.

“Raisa gets the best pastrami from the deli down the street,” Felicity explains as he digs deeper into her pint. “I recommend that.”

He spies the meat in one of the drawers, along with some provolone. Then he gets a griddle and two slices of bread. He butters them and then places them on the slowly heating pan, topping one with the cheese and meat.

“A pastrami grilled cheese?”

He nods. “Why not?”

Felicity grins, fingers loose around her spoon until she tosses it into the sink and then puts the ice cream back into the freezer. “Make me one?”

For a moment he hesitates, confused and a little taken aback. She had been so challenging in their first meeting, showcasing a stubbornness that very nearly matched his own. But here she is quiet, almost meek. An animal quietly begging for attention. Before he realizes it, he is buttering two more slices of bread and repeating the process, all while Felicity studies him.

“You’re a pretty tough guy, aren’t you?”

A chuckle slips out before he can stop it. “I’m standing here in front of a stove making grilled cheeses. This isn’t very tough… you might as well get me an apron.”

She smiles. A bright thing. A small thing. An uncommon thing in the seclusion of her home without all of the flashing lights and forced interviews, he can tell. “I mean, outside of the kitchen. With your job.”

He shrugs. There isn’t much to say without revealing the little bits of himself that aren’t on display for the world to see.

“You don’t talk much either, do you?” Felicity comes up beside him and places two plates on the counter beside the stove. Then she waits for an answer. Not impatiently. She just waits, giving the indication that she wants an answer without being too pushy. _Still a little pushy…_

“Only when it is necessary.” He finishes the grilled cheeses and plates them. Felicity goes back to her chosen stool and he takes one across from her. He watches her as she takes her first bite of the sandwich, the cheese stretching from her mouth to its place between the bread as she pulls it away. She rips the string of cheese and chews, eyes closing for a moment.

“Oh my goodness. This is amazing,” she says after swallowing the bite.

“It’s more about the good ingredients and less about the person putting them together,” he explains before taking his own bite.

“But you didn’t burn the bread.”

He eyes her for a moment, brow raised. “Do you burn the bread?”

She nods. “Always.”

The tension from earlier in the day is completely gone, eased by their banter and the food they are slowly consuming. He takes a bite and ponders her question and the implications that come with it. He usually stays silent about his job, not willing to divulge information, but he realizes she deserves to know.

“My job does require me to be pretty tough, I guess,” he finally admits.

Felicity looks up and chews, just watching him. Once she swallows, she asks, “Have you ever lost anyone?” He knows what she means and it reignites the ache he feels when he thinks about it; he never thinks about the job a few years back… never thinks of her.

He drops his sandwich onto the plate and slowly nods. “I have.”

He opens his eyes to see Felicity gulp down her fear at his words. “Tell me about it.”

For a moment he considers refusing - considers closing down and shutting off like he usually does. But then he sees the spark of hopefulness deep in her eyes. That hope that, despite either of their own personal mistakes, she will still be safer than anyone previously.

“A few years back I had to protect a high-profile lawyer. She was the best I had ever seen. Ambitious but compassionate. She was scary during cross examinations.” He took a deep breath. “It was a huge case, murder trial… serial murder, and she was getting plenty of threats. The night the verdict was announced and the scumbag was behind bars, she was shot down. Right in front of me.”

Felicity blinks and Oliver can see a little of that spark dissipating. “I’m sure there was nothing you could have done.”

He shakes his head. “There was plenty I could have done. But we all kinda felt the threats were empty and that once the guy was found guilty it would be over. We were wrong.”

For a few moments they just sit there, quiet and contemplative, sandwiches left on their plates to slowly cool. Then Felicity clears her throat. “Is that why you’re such a hard-ass?”

She winks and he grins. It is a simple comment but completely true. And her acknowledgement means the world, even with the teasing tone and gesture she uses.

“That's _exactly_ why I’m a hard-ass,” he answers.

She nods and returns to her sandwich, biting down with an audible crunch on the perfectly grilled bread.

They continue eating in silence. They avoid eye contact, Oliver sensing when she looks away so he can glance in her direction unnoticed - it is easy to study her and get a sense of how she works with her surroundings when she’s not paying attention. He finishes his sandwich first and places his plate and the griddle in the sink. He considers washing them but decides not to - the stress of the day is catching up to him and he’s ready to collapse into bed. He knows he has an early start in the morning and lots of work to do on the grounds with landscapers and Curtis, all in an attempt to merge old fashioned security with new technology.

He turns toward the door and almost leaves without a word, then thinks better of it. He turns to find her eyes on him. “Good night, Miss Smoak,” he says.

“Good night, Mr. Queen.”

 

\---

 

As he comes to the top of the stairs, he realizes there is one place he has not gone, one room he has not studied and criticized. Her room. Her sanctuary.

He knows the details of the attack from the report John had sent him the night before, knows the layout of the room and can picture each moment in his mind without trouble. But imagining and being there are two very different things. He is not at the point in his professional relationship with Miss Smoak to ask her for her testimony - all of the details that only she could give him are tucked away in her mind, under lock and key until she is ready to bring them out for examination.

So he goes past his door and to hers, then stops. With his hand on the doorknob, he listens to the silence. No movement. No breathing but his own. He glances up to see that there are no cameras monitoring the hall and no guards on patrol. He makes a note of that, adding to the compilation of flaws that need to be fixed. As he opens the door to Felicity Smoak’s bedroom, the scene of the internal crime, he considers hiring some of his own men to join the security team. He makes another note to bring that idea to Diggle’s attention.

The room is dimly lit by one small lamp by the side of the bed and the glow of her open laptop. The wall of windows is curtained, keeping the room hidden from prying eyes. _At least she has learned one thing,_ he thinks with frown.

Despite the obvious cleaning, however hasty that might have been, he can still see the faint glitter of glass in the rug beneath her vanity table. It is a new mirror - he knows the original shattered with the force of the bullet that was meant of her skull.

She is alive by mere inches. Saved by some psycho’s jumpy hand. And that psycho is currently being held and questioned - Oliver knows the man won’t talk, but the reminder of him being unable to wreak havoc in this room once again is enough. Enough for now.

He knows all too well that this situation runs deeper than just one obsessed hater longing to be remembered as the one who took America’s Pop Sweetheart out. _There’s more to it. There always is._

He moves the vanity and folds up the rug to keep the glass from falling. He might have been hired to keep Felicity Smoak alive, but it seems fair to keep her safe in all ways, even if it’s simply to keep slivers of glass from embedding themselves into her feet. As he stands and begins studying other parts of the room, he hears it. Her humming a song. Not one of her songs, he’s fairly certain. But he hears it, out in the hall and drawing closer. He rushes to the door leading into his room and escapes, her dangerous rug still clutched in his hands as he closes it and leans back, head resting along the wood.

He listens. He can hear the melancholy tone of the song she hums, a desperate and lonely melody that mixes with the feel of the carpet in his hands and the sharpness of the glass. He imagines it cutting her, slicing through her skin and severing what he imagines to be perfection. He takes a deep breath and attempts to center himself.

He was hired to protect her. He is in the room, just a door away from her to keep her safe, to keep intruders from enacting their sickest desires. His insecurities recede, slinking away to their burrows in his battered heart, lying in wait to return and assault his confidence. _I am what keeps her alive. I am the one who will keep her alive._

As he gets undressed and climbs into bed, he repeats those words to himself like a prayer, a mantra, a hopeful beatitude.

“I am what keeps her alive. I am the one who will keep her alive.”

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think of this first chapter? Don't forget to leave comments and kudos! :D
> 
> Follow me:  
> Tumblr - @arrow-through-my-writers-block  
> Twitter - @miss_writer


	2. A Face In The Crowd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the fantastic response to the first chapter of this story! The fact that you guys are already enjoying it has me so excited! :D 
> 
> And now, along with the gorgeous covers, I now have [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MbchmPlVYGU) short trailer for the story done by the lovely @hackergoddessfelicity on Tumblr! Thank you so much you amazing genius! :D
> 
> Also, check out the playlist I use while writing this story [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/12856345/playlist/1HaPMamPPjhbiPgBzxFBsZ)!

* * *

 

He’s helping the grounds security set up the motion activated lights as the sky begins to darken - the perfect time to test their handywork. They are installing the fourth of the lights when a procession leaves the house toward a limo that has just pulled up, unannounced and unwanted. Oliver climbs down the ladder he’s on and rushes toward the group. Felicity. Curtis. Rory. Rene. They are all in suits and Felicity is draped in a dark coat that hides her figure and the garments she’s chosen for whatever outing they’ve planned without his knowledge. 

“What’s going on?” he asks. 

“I have a performance. The one I was rehearsing for yesterday.”

“I wasn’t informed of this.”

“Who gives a shit what you’ve been informed about, newbie,” Rene says with a sneer. “Her life and career doesn’t come to a halt just because you’ve come onto the scene.”

“I wasn’t implying that. But if I’m supposed to keep her safe, I have to know all instances where she leaves this property so I can plan accordingly.” He looks to Curtis for backup but he isn’t seeing much support. “Where is this performance?”

“None of your business,” Rene hisses. 

“It actually  _ is _ my business.”

Oliver and Rene glare at one another, personalities clashing and it adds a thick tension to the interaction and the little circle they have formed in the space between the front door and the driveway. It only takes a few moments for Felicity to move between them, her face turned up to eye Oliver critically. “This performance has been planned for months. It is important. I apologize no one made that clear to you. You have a few minutes to get a suit on before we leave. I’ll need you there.”

Those last four words cause Rene to roll his eyes and storm away in the direction of the limo. Curtis lets out an exasperated groan and follows him, then Rory joins them. Felicity frowns and the expression tugs at Oliver’s heart just a bit, enough for him to reach out and touch her shoulder comfortingly. “They’ll warm to me eventually.”

“If you say so,” she says before he walks into the house to change into his suit. 

A small part of him worries that he will be left behind with no idea where they are going, but the sincerity in Felicity Smoak’s voice and eyes tells him not to worry - she won’t leave him. John Diggle had promised she would be willing to do whatever it takes to remain safe and alive. Oliver believes that, even with her display of challenge the day before. She’s a sucker for drama and fun, anything for a show. But those insecurities and hints of fear were there, and still are. She won’t leave without him. 

Once he’s dressed, he rushes down and out the door to find Felicity still standing there, between the front door and her limo, just waiting for him. She’s smiling when he steps up to her. “You look quite good in the suit, Mr. Queen.”

“Oliver. Call me Oliver,” he insists. No sense in keeping things  _ that _ professional when every breath is sacred and at risk of being the last.

She nods uncomfortably. “Oliver.” The sound of his name on her lips is strange and just the right amount of casual. And there’s something there, in the tug of his heart and the inner workings of his mind that lifts at the sound. The way each syllable plays against the planes of her tongue and the vibration of her vocal chords. He’s never felt such a response to someone speaking his name and it scares him. But he keeps his face muted, inexpressive, as he says, “Thank you.”

Then they are off, crowding into the limo and zooming into downtown L.A. They pass club after club, all of which he has never heard of before, until they finally pull into a back alley of one with a bright blue neon sign. He ignores the name. The name doesn’t matter. What matters is securing the alley and keeping it secure. 

“Okay, Rory and Rene. You need to sweep the alley, make sure it is clear before we let Felicity out. When we do let Felicity out, we keep her surrounded. Nothing should get past us. And the same thing will happen when we leave. Got it?”

“Yes,” Rory says. Rene just shrugs.

They exit the limo and return in a couple minutes with an all clear. The rest of them leave the limo and make their way into the back entrance of the club to be greeted by a frantic little man in a dark navy suit, no tie. He chatters random things Oliver doesn’t understand but Felicity seems to, giving him all the right answers until she is directed into a room full of her dancers. Oliver directs the rest of the team to secure the hallway leading to the stage, then having Rene fade into the crowd to keep an eye out.

He remains in the room, back turned from Felicity as she sheds her coat and double checks her makeup. He keeps his eyes on the door, guarding, protecting, his ears trained for any odd sounds. A skinny man pokes his head in and shouts, “Five minutes,” and everyone in the room goes into slight panic. 

“Relax, guys. We got this. We’ve rehearsed this nonstop, we’ve worked our asses off. We’ve got this,” Felicity encourages. But he can hear it in her voice, in the slight tremor that most people will miss. She’s just as nervous, if not more so. She’s afraid of messing up, of making a misstep. She’s scared of forgetting the lyrics or turning right when she was meant to turn left. She’s terrified of the unseen parts of the crowd she performs for - the part that resides in shadows created by the darkness of the club and the glare of the stage lights in her eyes. She’s afraid of another psycho with a gun. 

As they all line up behind Oliver, he turns and leans in, lips pressing to her ear. “I won’t let anything happen to you,” he promises with a nod. 

Her lips shift into a small, quivering smile as she nods in agreement. “Thank you,” she mouths to him. 

And then they leave the room, flooded with the sounds of cheers and chants, all calling for Felicity. He gets confident nods from the rest of the team that everything is secure and they allow Felicity to ascend to the stage, dancers taking formation first. 

She stays there, on the side of stage left. She fiddles with the hems of her skirt and fluffs her curls before a stagehand gives her a mic and earpiece to place on her person. She is professional, all the while moving in a nervous and jittery fashion. He admires her. He admires her resolve to keep going, to give her fans what they want despite the threat against her. 

She’s dedicated, and he doesn’t blame her. It has gotten her a lovely career in something she’s passionate about. 

Felicity turns around as the stage manager begins to count her off. The music begins to play but she turns to look at him, seeking reassurance and approval. He nods and mouths, “All clear,” and watches her take the stage to a roaring crowd. 

All of her nervousness and insecurity fades away as she belts out her song - it isn’t one he has ever heard and it certainly isn’t his style, but she kills it. 

Everything is running smoothly when he sees Rory and Rene in the distance, deep in the crowd at stage right. They are fighting their way through the audience, shouting into the chaos only a loud, raucous sea of fans can create. He follows their gazes and sees the person of terrifying interest. Glaring up at the stage. All hate, no gentleness. And then he sees the going of a gun barrel. A revolver of some caliber. 

Oliver moves without hesitation onto the stage, swooping in to cover Felicity. He drags her away and back to the darkness on either side of the stage, ignoring her protests, just as the gunshot rings out followed by a second one a few seconds later. He rips the mic and earpiece from her head and the battery pack slips from her waist to clatter to the floor.

“What the fuck are you doing, Mr. Queen?” she screams, a mixture of terror and fury.

“You were about to be shot, Felicity. Did you  _ not  _ hear the shots?”

She shakes her head just as the instrumental track she had been singing along to ends and the only sound is the crowd screaming in panic. Her skin has gone a ghostly pale as the realization hits her. “I… I-”

“We need to get you out of here.”

And they move through the hallways by the dressing rooms and past panicked club employees to the back door. Oliver glances behind them to find Curtis rushing after them. As he opens the door, he thrusts Felicity between him and Curtis before stepping out, the night air cold against his flush skin. 

The limo is still there, safe, guarded by a member of the grounds security. The man looks up, surprised. “What-”

“Another gunman,” Oliver and Curtis say at the same time. 

“Oh!” The guard rushes to the driver's seat and starts the car while they pile in. He looks back and frowns. “What about Rory and Rene?”

“Just drive.”

And he does. Hesitantly at first but then quickly and with little care for the way he rounds corners and speeds through lights. Oliver keeps his eyes behind them, trained on a car that has kept up with them through every sudden turn and red light. “Robbie, we’re gonna need you to get a little more reckless.”

“I’m already speeding and running l-”

“We’re being followed!” Oliver shouts. In that moment, he realizes that Felicity has tucked herself into him, head resting on his shoulder and her hands clutching at his shirt. He isn’t used to the sensation. No one he’s protected before has been truly fragile in such a way. It doesn’t take long for his arms to wrap around her and stroke her back in what he hopes is a calming way. “It's okay, Felicity,” he promises even though there is no certainty. “It’s okay.”

She nods against his chest, but remains in that position, too afraid to change. 

They near her street and Oliver shakes his head. “Don’t go back to the house! You haven’t lost him yet!”

Those words send Robbie turning the wheel like a maniac until they are zooming along a new road and through a different upscale neighborhood. Their speed increases and Robbie makes another turn, then another, weaving them through a labyrinth of mansions and gated entrances until the car disappears in the confusion. 

“Keep this up. We can’t go back until we are absolutely certain we’ve lost them.”

So they drive and Felicity stays pressed against him, breath finally evening out. But her hands are still tight and fisted around clumps of his shirt. 

“Curtis, remind me to get a comm system set up. We need to be able to communicate when we’re at venues.”

“I’ll get that started as soon as we get home.”

Felicity lifts her head slightly, eyes lined with red and her mascara running. She seeks answers in Oliver expression, but he knows she’s not finding what she wants. “Why does this keep happening?” she asks, almost begs. 

He fights off the shrug he usually uses in answer to such questions - anyone else could survive the truth that there is never really an answer. Felicity, however, is being tortured, toyed with. From where he sits, she’s some sort of plaything for someone pulling strings. He’s convinced that none of the shooters were actually supposed to succeed. But these theories and uncertainties are not what Felicity needs. 

So he brushes through her hair comfortingly and says, “Some people cannot live with their jealousy. Or maybe they are just crazy. But you’re safe. Right here, with me, you’re safe.”

For a moment it looks as if she’s going to disagree, to throw his attempts at soothing her nerves back in his face as failure. But she nods, tears still welling in her eyes and her nose sniffling every few seconds. It pains him to see her so truly helpless after witnessing her at her most confident and charismatic. She was a wonder on stage, free and bright and alive in ways that seem to be at odds with the woman sitting in his arms now. 

But he knows she’s a perfect example of contrasts, and he is slowly getting used to all of the potential combinations he might get at any given moment. In just two days, she has surprised him, infuriated him and very nearly defeated him. There are only a few people who break down his walls to get to the affectionate and gentle man beneath, but Felicity has done it in mere hours. Record-breaking.  _ What an interesting woman. _

 

\---

 

They keep driving and Felicity keeps her body wrapped in Oliver’s arms. He’s warm. He’s solid. He’s comforting. He says all the right things even when it is clear he doesn’t believe a word that he’s spouting. But he makes sure that nothing feels like a lie, and somewhere in the mixture of theories and half truths, Felicity feels that Oliver isn’t intending to harm her with hope or reassurances. He’s keeping her safe. 

“I think it’s safe,” Oliver says, his breath beating against the top of her head. “I haven’t seen any suspicious vehicles for the last half hour. Head home, Robbie.”

“Will do, sir,” Robbie answers.

“We’re heading home, Miss Smoak,” Oliver says into her hair.

“Felicity,” she insists, tucking herself closer into him, memorizing the cadence of his beating heart. 

After a few minutes, they pull into the dimly lit driveway and up to the front door. Oliver helps her out and leads her to the door as Curtis opens it. They enter the house and Felicity turns, arms wrapped around herself as she eyes Oliver critically. “How can you be certain that we’re safe here… now?”

His face does something, just for a moment, and she can see the distinct moment when his bravado - his confidence in his skill and abilities - wavers. His eyes shift from calm to fearful. His hands clench into fists. She can see his pulse beating along his neck. For that single moment, she knows he cannot be certain. But it doesn’t scare her or force her to doubt his expertise. As quickly as he let his doubt show, he hides it and murmurs, “There’s no certainty. But with me I promise you are safe.”

Curtis begins watching security cameras on his tablet, scanning all of the ones at the gate and along the property walls. “There’s a line of cars, Mr. Queen.”

“Visual on drivers or passengers?”

Curtis shakes his head. “Negative. Tinted windows.”

A silence falls as Curtis and Oliver watch the feeds, waiting for a tell - waiting for anything they can work with. Felicity paces the foyer, heels clicking and clacking against the tile to echo off the walls. A lonely sound. A drop of noise in a cavernous silence. Each step whittles away at her patience, but also small bits of her fear. Now she’s just angry. Now she’s ready for action.

“Any idea why they might be waiting out there?” she asks as she steps over to the pair of men and studies the screen. It switches between camera feeds, each one similar to the one before, full of cars with their headlights off. 

“No idea,” Oliver admits. “But I can’t imagine it is for anything go-”

The lights shut off, flooding them in darkness until their eyes adjust. Felicity blinks until the ambient light from the windows outlines the room in silver and deep blues. “I think it's safe to say we now know why they are parked outside,” she murmurs, heart escalating into a pounding that deafens her, thudding in her ears. 

“Curtis, can you get power back up?” Oliver asks.

“How would I do that?” 

Felicity and Oliver both look at Curtis, mouths agape. “Do you have a generator? Any sort of emergency power?” Oliver growls. 

Curtis shakes his head. “We never thought we’d need something like that,” he admits. “I can get in touch with police and we can attempt to get to the main breaker.”

“There’s only the two of us to protect her.”

Felicity shifts her attention to Oliver. “What do I mean you only have the two of you?”

Oliver closes his eyes for a moment and she can see his frustration at letting out some sort of information he shouldn’t have. When he opens his eyes he also lets out a sigh, a calming measure as his fists clench and unclench. “Until Rene and Rory get back, we have Robbie on grounds. Curtis, call the rest of the grounds team. They should have met us here when we arrived.”

“Why did they leave?”

“They didn’t,” Oliver says, voice cold and calculating, mimicking the obvious wheels that were turning in his head.

For a moment, the truth of his words do not hit her. Everything just hangs in the air there between them, heavy and full of fear, much like the silence before. But then it hits. A horrifying truth. The men are missing. Her men, the ones she pays to protect her, are missing. Her men, the ones she’s worked with for so many years, since the beginning of her career, are gone. Lost in the dark. Much like herself. 

“Oliver,” she hisses, her eyes closed to fight back the tears stinging and begging to fall. “Go find them.”

“I cannot leave you.”

“You have to find them!”

“Curtis, get Rory on the phone,” Oliver orders. Curtis complies and they wait as the line rings until Rory picks up. 

“This is Rory.”

“Where are you guys?”

Another voice cuts into the conversation. “We could ask you the same question,  _ Mr. Queen _ .”

“This is not the time for your snark or attitude, Rene. Now, we have a situation at the house. No grounds security. Power out. We need you guys here.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have left us at a crime scene!”

“We’re on our way, Mr. Queen,” Rory insists, and then the call is dropped. 

“Oliver, you have to find them,” Felicity repeats, mind racing and recalling the faces of the grounds security, moving herself about the room frantically. She’s unsure what to do with herself. The darkness is weighing down on her and her worry has tripled. “I can help you.”

Oliver stops her in her tracks, the scrape of her heel against the tile ringing in the air as he places his hands on her arms. His thumb rubs circles at her elbows, repetitive to the point of soothing. “Felicity, I am supposed to protect you.”

“You can protect me  _ while _ you search for my men.”

A hint of a smile creeps into the right corner of his mouth as he shakes his head. “I have no idea where they are, what has happened or who has gained access to the property since the power went down. We need to remain here and-”

“And what?” she shouts, patience waning. “Remain here and be sitting ducks for these psychos? I’m not interested in anyone getting an easy shot at me, Oliver.”

Oliver makes a move to speak, to disagree, and she silences him with a finger to his lips. “No, Oliver. We are going to find them. The two of us.”

Curtis clears his throat. “If you really wanna do that, Felicity, might I make a suggestion?”

“Of course,” she answers, brow rising at his comment. “What?”

“Take off your heels.”

 

\---

 

He hates the idea. Despises it to his very core.  _ I’m supposed to protect her. Not bring her into the line of fire.  _ But there they are, hand in hand, walking through the mansion in almost blindness. Her fingers grip tightly, signaling the fear she fought to hide below her boldness moments before. She cannot hide the truth from him, however. He squeezes her hand, hoping the gesture is comforting. 

The hallway leading to the kitchen is quiet. Deathly quiet. They step lightly on bare feet, one slow step at a time. He listens to the quiet around them in desperation, hoping for something… just one sound - any sound - to give him a hint at what is happening beyond his line of sight. The gun on his belt is heavy, begging for use despite his distaste for firearms. When it comes down to it, Oliver will most likely fight hand-to-hand to keep the silence intact. 

A rustling comes from a room to his right and he halts. Felicity grasps onto his arm to steady herself and he can feel her breath trickling through the fabric of his shirt. Warm. Fast. Scared. He knows he will never be enough to fully rebuild her confidence - not after all that has happened to her, or whatever might still happen - but he hopes he is some sort of steady rock for her. Someone to keep her safe, but also sane. “Relax,” he whispers as he presses himself against the wall and listens. 

The rustling continues. An odd sound. Almost like an animal scavenging through trash in search of food. In his mind, for just a moment, he imagines a burglar rifling through papers for something worthwhile. If it weren’t for everything else that had occurred within the last few hours, he might believe it to be a paparazzo looking for more than just the perfect shot. Information. Something full of drama and questionable dealings.  _ No,  _ he thinks as the sound grows louder and a drawer is slid open.  _ This is all connected.  _

He pushes Felicity against the wall, his hand spanning the surface of her belly gently, keeping her there. He glances down hoping her eyes have fully adjusted to the darkness, and gives her a look of warning, a plea to stay put, and she eventually nods in understanding. 

Then he fades out of the hallway and into the room beyond, all shadows and darkness and closed fists. The man within is in all black, drawer balanced on a raised knee as he shuffles the contents around, a little flashlight clamped between his teeth. He’s unmasked. Young. Clearly opportunistic. Unphased by the idea of ruining or ending someone’s life. 

“Put it down,” Oliver says, voice deep and threatening. He’s used that same voice many times before in many situations, and it always elicits the same reaction. 

The man drops the drawer and holds up his hands, eyes wide. The flashlight drops from his mouth and clatters to the floor, bulb darkening with the impact. The man looks around and attempt to bolt, but Oliver is on his fast than he expected, grasping his arms and tugging backward… hard. The man’s left arm pops and grows limp as a pained scream escapes his mouth. Oliver keeps the man’s arms restrained and pushes him, face down, onto the desk her had been rifling through. “Why are you here?” Oliver asks.

The man whines and cries. No answer. 

“Tell me!”

More whining. 

Oliver tightens his grip on the man’s injured arm and tugs, letting the muscles and tendons stretch at the shoulder, just at the point of the dislocation. “Tell me, or I make this worse for you.” 

“There are… more.”

“More what?”

Silence.

Oliver tugs the man’s limp arm once more. “More that!?”

“Of us! More of us!” the man cried.

“What is your goal?” Who is doing this?”

“To get rid of that bitch!”

“Why?”

The man let out a strangled laugh. “Not everyone believes she’s perfect.”

Oliver growls as his impatience hits its maximum level, bubbling up and hitting the ceiling of his nerves. “ _ Who _ wants her dead?”

The man remains silent and his head shakes slightly, outright refusal wrapped in his posture despite the dire circumstances he faces. Oliver shows more force and growls out more demands, all to no avail. He is aware, only vaguely, of Felicity standing behind him. He hears her whimpers of fear. He looks back to see her back-lit by moonlight trickling in through a window in the room across the hall, curves silhouetted perfectly and hair glowing in wisps and curls. 

For a moment he feels a distinct insecurity, one that he hasn’t felt in so long - one that he had long believed to be completely gone and lost to the grit his life had undertaken. But there it is, alive and well in the fearful look he knows she has within the shadows that conceals her face. Judgment of his choices, of his violence. Judgment of the rage he channels to get the information he needs. It is ridiculous - laughable - that he might take such impressions into account. He knows this is his job. This is what he is meant to do to protect her. But that fear and wariness is enough to shake him. 

And then the man within his grasp begins to convulse. In the dimness Oliver can see the frothy mess escaping the man’s lips as the poisonous seizure wracks through his body, shutting everything vital down. Within moments, the man stills. Nothing to go on. Nothing to ponder but words empty of meaning. 

“Is… is he… dead?” Felicity asks. 

Oliver frowns. “Yes,” he answers simply.

Felicity remains quiet before murmuring very low and very darkly, “Good riddance.”

Oliver takes her hand and marches her out and through the hallway. He can feel her whole arm trembling as he leads her along, knowing without any doubt that her whole body is reacting the same. She’s terrified. But she’s strong.  _ Strong as hell, _ he thinks with a slight smile. A sad smile mixed with a bit of pride. Most women he has protected do not have the subtle fire Felicity owns. They cower and whine and let the world dictate all of their actions. But Felicity is so different. Beneath the weakness and fear, she is unstoppable. 

They reach the kitchen and Oliver pushes the door open. The room is darker than the previous one but he can see the bodies on the floor; the smell of blood is metallic in the air. His eyes adjust and he can see each body is one of the grounds guards. He holds Felicity back but she forces her way past him, determined and impatient. She stops within seconds and her whole body stills. Her head is shaking. Denial. 

“Felicity, I need to take you back to Curtis. Whoever did this might still be here and-”

“No!” she interrupts as she swings around to face him. Even in the darkness he knows tears are forming in her eyes and she’s fighting to stay in control of herself. “I’m staying with you.”

A laugh sounds at the back of the kitchen, followed by a second. They are both harsh… cold, cynical. Imitations of normalcy. “That will make our jobs so much easier.”

Oliver doesn’t hesitate. He draws his gun and aims at the closest body, eyes trained. The night sights glow with the ambient light and he lines it up with the center of the man’s head. “Drop your weapons. Get on the ground. This is over.”

“This isn’t over until she’s dead.”

“This is over when  _ I _ say it’s over.”

The two men laugh once more before the first one says, “You’re not the one in control.”

Oliver studies the shadows, the postures hidden within the distortions. They aren’t as confident as they present themselves. They are rigid and fearful, skilled yet completely unprepared. He knows Felicity’s guards are not well trained, and if taken by surprise, they could have made easy victims. He focuses back in on his sights and grasps at the man’s words - at their implications. “Who  _ is _ in control?”

“Something greater than you - greater than her. They know her secrets and they aren’t buying the bullshit mask she wears.”

Their words make no sense, but they fit together with the cryptic message from the man before.  _ Not everyone believes she’s perfect. _

The men move toward them but Oliver fires a shot into the first man’s skull and quickly shifts the barrel to aim at the other man’s chest. Nowhere vital. They need at least one person to talk. “Give us answers!”

The man falls to the ground beside his comrade and laughs. “I’m not giving you shit. Maybe you should ask her.” And then, like the first man in the other room, he convulses until his whole body stills. Lifeless. Useless. Dead. 

All of them dead. 

Behind him, Felicity begins to sob. He turns and brings her into his arms, taking in all of her emotions… absorbing them like a sponge. She shakes against him for a few moments, then pushes away from him. “This is all my fault.”

“This isn’t your fault, Felicity,” he assures her as he reaches up, letting a hand cup her cheek in as soothing a touch as he can muster in the chaos of the moment. 

“It is!”

“How?” he asks. All of the men alluded to it but he refuses to believe it.  _ How could she know it was her fault and yet not tell me? _

She just shakes her head against his hand. She shifts from foot to foot, nervous beneath the scrutiny he now gives her. As he waits, the power springs to blinding life. The room and the carnage takes on the vibrancy of light, blood glistening on the floor and blank eyes shining from the bodies scattered about. Felicity’s eyes are bloodshot and lined with tears. Her mascara has smudged beneath her lower lashes and one black line slides along her cheek with a single tear. 

“How is this your fault, Felicity?” he asks gently.

He can see it in her eyes then. Fear. Guilt. He can see the words fighting to break free from her lips, but she hesitates. He knows, without having to ask, that she worries about his judgment.

“If I hadn’t run away. If I had only done what they wanted…”

“Who?” he asks. 

She shakes her head again. “All of this wouldn’t have happened.” She points at the men on the ground. Her men. “They’d still be alive.”

“Felicity, I’m gonna need more than that.”

“I made this happen.”

“You’ve already said that. But how?”

She covers her face in her hands and lets out a long sigh. It is full of everything she’s kept bottled up. Everything she hadn’t known she knew. When she reveals her face, he can see a resolve forming, a dedication to honesty. “I wasn’t always Felicity Smoak,” she says.

“Okay?”

“I can only assume that these people are looking for who I used to be.”

“And who was that?” he asks. He tries to imagine her as anyone but the complicated superstar before him, but she’s built herself into that role perfectly. It is her. It is everything. It just… fits.

“Megan Kuttler.”

The name never came up in any of his searches or documents John had given him when he took the job. The name feels odd in connection with the fiery blonde standing before him. It certainly isn’t the name of a pop goddess. “And what did Megan Kuttler  _ do _ , exactly?”

“She loved to hack. She used her computer and fast typing to hack anything and everything. She used it to get back at anyone and everyone she blamed for her shitty life.”

Oliver nods, seeing where everything might be going… where Felicity might be leading to. “And... how is this connected to the attempts on your life?”

“This is random haters or obsessed fans wanting to end my life. This is something bigger. Bigger than you can probably handle.”

His patience is wearing down and he can hear footsteps echoing from down the hall. “Felicity, just say it. Who is doing this?”

“Helix.”

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	3. Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again I'd like to thank everyone for the amazing reception you've given this story! It means the world to me that you're already so invested in this story! I hope you enjoy this new chapter!

Check out the story trailer [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MbchmPlVYGU)!

* * *

 

The moment the name leaves her mouth, it feels like a weight has been lifted from her shoulders. Her secret is out. Her past is back in full force. Her truth is revealed. It is odd having that name floating in the air around her after so many years running, fleeing. She doesn’t miss that fear or the forced dance of her fingers over a keyboard. She doesn’t miss the faces that make up that name, so cold and calculating to the extreme. She misses none of it.

“Who is Helix?” Oliver asks.

“It isn’t a who, really… It is an organization. Secret, super hacker organization hell bent on God only knows what. And they used me for some of their most important jobs.”

Oliver’s eyes narrow in thought. He’s processing her words and already making up a list of cause and effect, who and what, how and when. All of the connections he can make with the little information she has given. “And why would they want to kill you?”

“I left them. They asked for too much of me and I left. I went into hiding for years until I emerged as this,” she says, gesturing at herself, at the costume she still wears from her performance earlier in the night. “I changed my name. Changed my hair. I made myself into something I longed to be. Something so far removed from my past that I thought, just maybe, they wouldn’t see Megan beneath the mask.”

Oliver’s eyes have narrowed and she can sense so many different things cascading off him - usually so composed, but now a layer of distrust, fear and anger are rolling off of him. His eyes are penetrating.

“I can’t give you more than that, Oliver,” she says, feeling the surety of her words even as her hands shake as his eyes terrify her.

“I can’t protect you if you keep things from me.”

She frowns and looks at her bare feet. “I simply can’t.”

She runs. Away from his judgment and away from the violence that has escalated because of her. She runs toward her safe haven. Her quiet place. Her room. Nothing else matters but to slam the door and turn the lock to keep the world at bay. Her bare feet slap against the tile and then pad against the upstairs carpet. Deep down she knows Oliver is following her, keeping just enough distance to give her privacy but close enough to know if anything goes amiss.

_He’s not stupid._

She accepts this fact and opens her bedroom door. It is almost instantly that she realizes someone has been in her room. The bedside lamp is on and there is a slip of paper tucked into the frame of her new vanity mirror. Even with no one watching she pretends to be fearless and moves straight to the paper, hand reaching with only a hint of trembling. Her fingers touch the paper and she can feel the hatred the sheet possesses, that inexplicable energy that objects have whenever something negative is its purpose. It is plain to see there are no words on the paper, no sentences accusing her of everything she’s done or has yet to do. But the symbol featured on the paper is terrifying no matter how simple it is.

An arrow. Pointing at her laptop that rests on the vanity table, mere inches below.

She debates, resorting to her old habit of pacing back and forth. She slides a hair tie off her vanity and loops it around her hair until it is tight and high in a comfortable ponytail. Her thinking hair. Her worry hair. Her anxious hair.

She knows the risk all too well. It is Helix, after all. She knows how they operate, how they utilize someone’s own fear to get what they want. They are all for show, for theatrics. Part of her can see this whole thing leading to just a stupid message reminding her of who she is. It could be harmless.

But then the faces of each dead man below flitters across her closed eyes. That is serious. That isn’t just some elaborate prank. They mean business and that business is the end of Felicity’s life at whatever cost.

She opens her eyes to find Oliver standing behind her through the reflection of the mirror. He’s eyeing the arrow with an expression of confusion. “Is this really how Helix operates?”

She nods. “Mess with your head. Make you feel small. Yep. That’s them.”

He moves and sits on the bed. “Check the laptop, Felicity.”

She bites her lip, hesitating as she glances back at her laptop - her baby. For a long time she had gone without at computer completely, but now, with her life where it is, she thought she could finally indulge. “It scares me. Just a bit.” She looks back to Oliver to find him nodding, eyes soft with understanding.

“I know, Felicity. But I’m here.”

She takes a deep breath and then picks the laptop up. She loves the weight of it. Light but so solid and, before all of this, reassuring. She rounds the bed and sits on the opposite side as Oliver. She closes her eyes for one last moment to gather courage and then opens it and presses the power button. It has been off since the hit, since the moment it was possible Helix had found her. The idea of the computer screen staring back at her had been too much to handle.

The laptop boots up and Felicity’s hands rest above the keyboard in their old battle stance. Ready to dance.

For a few almost serene moments, nothing happens. It feels heaven sent, as if it isn’t as bad as she’s been making it out to be. As if maybe, just maybe, they don’t mean to emotionally torture her.

But then the screen comes to life and images flash across it. Photos. Screenshots. Bank statements. Classified documents. Each and every single one is recognizable on a personal yet professional level. Some of them are from long before her Helix days, back when she operated alone and with very little interest in covering her tracks. _It was small-time,_ she thinks to herself as an old listing of crooked casino dealings rushes across the screen. _I didn’t need to be too careful._

She hadn’t thought she needed to be careful. At the time, the existence of Helix had never occurred to her. She knew of hacker organizations - the elite of the illegal trade - but had never come into contact with them. _How was I supposed to know that my steps were being tracked?_

The last image is a shadowed photo of a man. Even in the dimly lit photo, she can see his body and the toned muscle etched like perfect stone beneath scarred, umber skin. His face is square and harsh but his features are unrecognizable. Felicity knows for certain that this man was never one of her jobs - never a subject of searches or hacks. But the severity of his appearance makes her heart pound and her hands begin to tremble as the screen goes black.

“Who was that?” Oliver asks, gently and patiently.

She shrugs. “Not sure. But I assume he’s a threat.”

“Can you get that picture back?”

She shakes her head. “I wish. But messages like this don’t stay on the computer they’re sent to. Helix isn’t going to leave anything incriminating.”

“So we’re back where we started?”

She nods. “We’re back where we started.”

 

\---

 

The guys are training on the front lawn, sweat glistening on their skin. Oliver has them paired off and fighting one another, grunts filling the air with each landed blow. Oliver walks among them. It is a smaller group than it used to be, with a heavier weight surrounding each individual. The only men that remain are Robbie, Rene, Rory and Curtis. It scares her. Even with Oliver’s plans to increase the numbers at the gates and around the outer walls of the property - all from Diggle’s preferred ranks - she still feels underwhelmed. She knows there’s more she can do besides searching for evidence of Helix in their security systems.

Then it hits her as Curtis fumbles a block and Robbie’s fist lands against his cheek. “Oliver,” she speaks up over the violent, testosterone filled ambiance and Oliver turns, brows furrowed in reaction to her presence. “I have a request.”

He steps away from the training session and faces her, giving her his complete attention. His intensity is intimidating to say the least. She is aware he sees everything. Every subtle quirk and probably even things she doesn’t know she does. _It’s his job,_ she reminds herself as their eyes lock and she feels the full force of his crystal gaze - blue, icy and critical. “What is it?” he asks.

She tilts her head and squints against the sun to better catch his reaction to her words. “I’d like you to train me,” she says.

“Train you?”

“In self-defense.”

She watches as he ponders the request and all of the potential implications of it - the benefits and pitfalls. Everything. He is always thinking in the long term, ahead multiple steps from their current position. It is an impressive tactical mind. And even though his thought process is so different from her own, she knows when she was a hacker she had the same skill; she wonders if it is still there somewhere beneath her comfy, celebrity persona but she doesn’t want to unlock it. Doesn’t want to dabble in that world again. _I am_ not _Megan Kuttler._

“Will you take the training seriously?”

She frowns. “Are you actually asking me that?” When he simply blinks at her in a sorry excuse for an answer, she feels offended. “My men have died. I keep getting targeted for my past. I want the skills to defend myself.”

“Okay.”

“I have the right to defend myself against these psychos!”

“Felicity-”

“I can’t take feeling vulnerable anymore and I-”

“ _Fe-li-ci-ty_ , I said okay.”

She closes her mouth and simply stares at him. “You did?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. I guess I expected you to be more disagreeable. To put up more of a fight…”

He shakes his head, a grin spreading across his lips to brighten his usually grim, bloody expression. “I think it is a great idea. I’ll meet you in the gym this afternoon at… say… three o’clock?”

“Perfect,” she agrees and her worry subsides, transforming to a budding confidence in the new development.

 

\---

 

Felicity sits in the corner of the gym, waiting. She’s never truly understood the meaning of the phrase _to twiddle one’s thumbs_ , but she is finding herself doing just that - her thumbs dance against one another, over and over in a rotation, matching her impatience.

Thirty minutes late. Oliver Queen is thirty minutes late and counting. Her legs are stretched out in front of her, feet crossed and she fights the urge to shake them in time with the fidgeting of her thumbs. Her disappointment spikes with each passing minute, single balls of red hot irritation that bounce around her mind, leaving it a jumbled mess.

_Why would he pick a time if he can’t keep to it?_

_Does he really not take me that seriously?_

The questions begin to overflow, one after the other of their own volition, creating an insecurity she hasn’t felt since her father left. Seven years old in tears and fear, wondering what she might have done to make him leave - wondering what she could have done to make him stay. She detests the feeling. The overpowering fear of loneliness and not being wanted. When she was a child, it was paralyzing. It would leave her in a puddle of silent tears buried under her blankets, only a stuffed panda to keep her company. Now the sensation just makes her angry.

After a few more minutes, Felicity hops to her feet and stomps over to the door, eyes stinging with unwanted, unshed tears. She turns the knob and pushes the door into something that lets out a surprised grunt at the assault. Felicity peeks around the door to find Oliver panting.

“Oh,” she murmurs. “You.”

“I’m sorry, Felicity! I really am.”

“Save it. I’ll just have Digg train me. He’ll be sure to show up on time.”

“That's not fair.”

She swivels around and glares at him, her arms crossed on her chest in annoyance. “No. What's not fair is leaving the girl who has been threatened repeatedly alone when she’s supposed to be learning how to defend herself. And even worse… not showing up at the time _you_ chose.”

“Again, I am so sorry.”

“And to add to it, you’re not even giving me any sort of excuses.”

His face appears mere inches from hers and she takes a slight step backward until her body presses against the door frame. “You want an excuse? I’ll give you one. I was visiting the families of your men, offering my condolences for their losses and offering any financial help they may need in light of that loss.”

“Oh.”

His face never leaves its place in front of hers, and their breaths begin to mingle, hot and angry. “Yeah,” he growls out. “ _Oh_.”

For a few moments they simply stare at one another. She fights the embarrassment that floods her mind and warms her cheeks. She looks away, down at her feet, like a child guilty of telling a white lie. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Oliver murmurs after a short silence. “You didn’t know. I should have called you.”

She ignores the desire to agree with him, certain it will sound too accusatory. Instead She asks, “Does Anna look any better?”

Ray Palmer’s wife is nearing the end of her pregnancy and the overwhelming weight of life without him showed so clearly on her face when Felicity sat beside her on the couch earlier in the morning.

Oliver shook his head. “I wouldn’t expect her to feel or look any better for a while.”

“I’m giving her money for the baby.”

Oliver grins with an air of melancholy, eyes distant for a moment before focusing on her once more. “I’m doing the same.”

They share an awkward silence, the sadness of the losses lingering between them, heavy and painful.

“Wanna punch something?” Oliver finally asks her.

Felicity smiles despite everything her life has become and nods. “That sounds fantastic.”

 

\---

 

Felicity makes her way through the grounds, winding her way through the assorted gardens and the scattered fountains. She recalls a time when she was a child. Back when this was the only things she wanted - gardens. The gardens in films she devoured and memorized. _Princess Diaries. Pride & Prejudice. _Anything with a sprawling estate wove it's way into her heart and became her wish.

Now the whole layout feels absurd. _Why create an oasis if you can’t protect it?_ she thinks as she takes a seat in the shade if a willow tree and just breathes. She breathes in and out, slow and cleansing, eyes closed and hands folded in her lap. She lets the light breeze lift her hair and she memorizes each sensation: the individual strands moving… shifting, the breeze hitting her exposed skin… And then she hears it.

An exuberant laugh.

A child’s laugh.

Hesitantly, she stands and inches out from under the tree, its weeping foliage obscuring the broader expanse of the grounds. The laughter mixes with splashes and the springy thrum of the diving board. _Who's swimming?_ As she leaves her hiding spot, she sees Oliver in the pool, smiling and flinging water in the direction of a smaller form.

A young boy.

 

 _He has a son?_ she wonders. _That wasn't in his file… or in any of the searches I ran personally._

But as she watches them, it is clear what the relationship is. Protective but playful. Gentle but firm. His movements aren’t stiff or professional and she's never seen Oliver smile so much, nor so widely. The sight is mesmerizing. It is a side of the man she has not glimpsed, and it is a perfect contrast to the professional air he presents to her day-to-day.

As she watches the little scene, the boy looks up and waves. “Felicity Smoak! Cool!”

Oliver spins around, water around him swirling and morphing into small waves, and he looks both surprised and terrified by her presence. He turns and says something to the boy, low and impossible to hear from her vantage point. Then Oliver leaves the pool, dripping wet and all muscle, leaving puddles along the footpath until he is right by her, eyes intent on her. “I am so sorry.”

She blinks at him, confused by his words. “Sorry for what?”

“For bringing him here.”

“I guess I’m confused.”

“I should have asked if I could bring him here before doing it. I apologize.”

She grins for a moment then chuckles. “You think I don’t approve of you bringing your son here?”

“How did you know th-”

“I’m not blind, Mr. Queen.”

“Oliver,” he corrects, insistently.

“I’m not blind, _Oliver_. That boy is basically a spindly tween version of you. I bet he broods like you do, too!”

A hint of a grin twitches at the corner if his mouth and it interrupts the progress of a drop of water that has been sliding down from his drenched hair. “That obvious?”

She nods.

“Well, I still should have asked you first.”

Felicity shrugs. “The fact that you are willing to bring your son here tells me, just a little bit, that you think it is safe here.”

He leans forward and whispers, “Only safe with me around.” And he winks.

“Full of yourself much?”

“I have to be.”

The silence that falls between them is heavy and etched with a mixture of darkness and light, colliding with the lovely day and garden atmosphere around them. She knows he’s right, and it infuriates her that he’s the only reason she feels as safe as she has. The attack at the club and subsequent car chases and blackouts had her rattled and she knows her decision to give him full control of security operations is the right one. But the fear she still feels is suffocating and his confidence is like a shield from that overwhelming fear.

Before she can say anything in response, the boy rushes up. He’s around ten years old, with sandy hair now dark and plastered to his head, falling into his eyes. He’s smiling broadly, looking back and forth between the two of them with a twinkle in his eyes and water droplets clinging to his lashes - the same lashes his father has. “Dad, we weren’t finished saving the Queen,” he complains. “Maybe Felicity can help!”

Oliver shakes his head. “I don’t think-”

“I’d love to,” she interrupts. “But first I need to know who you are and what's in it for me…”

The boy’s face brightens and he tries to dry his hand on his swim trunks to no avail. Beside her, Oliver is covering his face in embarrassment, eyes closed and more water dripping from the movement. The boy offers Felicity his chlorine covered hand and she shakes it firmly as he says, “My name is William, but for the purposes of the current rescue mission, I go as Arsenal, in honor of a fallen comrade.” Then he points to Oliver. “And he’s the Green Arrow.”

“Why _Green Arrow_?” she asks.

Oliver's face is still covered slightly, fingers massaging his temples, but he murmurs, “Favorite color and favorite weapon.”

Felicity nods.

“When Mr. Diggle joins us on missions, he’s called Spartan. What can we call you?” William asks, studying Felicity for clues, eyes squinting against the sun. “You don’t look fast so you can’t borrow Speedy from Aunt Thea.”

The boy is a distraction for her, and one she needs. All of the interviews and training have taken over her already busy schedule and she’s had little time to relax. She looks at Oliver and finds him grinning as he studies her. “Got any ideas, _Green Arrow_?”

He shrugs. “For some reason, the name Overwatch keeps coming to mind.”

“I like it!” William exclaims, fist raised in the air triumphantly as he jumps. “Can we finish the mission now?”

Felicity holds up a hand. “I have to get my swim suit first! Do I have time for that?”

William’s face scrunches for a moment as he thinks, and then he nods. “Every soldier must be prepared.”

Felicity nods in agreement and then bounds away, saying over her shoulder, “Overwatch’s ETA is five minutes and counting!”

 

\---

 

They wait for Felicity by the pool, William splashing around and testing his water guns while Oliver swipes through the camera feeds on his phone, considering whether to rid the team of them. Helix could hack them, making them a liability. Work is never done, not even when he’s with his son. But he’s discreet and always attentive.

“It is pretty cool that you’re Felicity Smoak’s bodyguard, dad,” William says, head bobbing as he treads water in the center of the pool.

“Really?” Oliver asks, a grin quirking at the side of his mouth. He hasn’t ever needed any _cool points_ with William, but somehow his approval means everything. He’s always hoped for his son to be proud of him - to look up to him.

“Yeah! She’s awesome!”

“You’re a fan?”

William shrugs. “Her music is good. Plus, it gives me points with the _ladies_.”

Oliver’s eyes widen. “What do you know about ladies, Will?”

“Enough to know that being a fan of Felicity Smoak gives me a lot of _cool points_.”

Oliver can’t help but laugh at this, despite his worry that his son is growing up too fast. _Girls… already?_ He recalls a time when William was barely able to walk, teetering to and fro with a fearlessness and adorable determination. _Wasn’t that yesterday?_ “Aren’t you a little young to be interested in girls, Will?”

William displays another shrug accompanied by a blush of embarrassment. “What can I say? The ladies love me.” Then William sends a cascade of water toward Oliver. “Mom says I get it from _you_.”

Oliver laughs. “She’s probably right.”

Bare footsteps slap against the pathway toward the pool and Oliver looks up to find Felicity rushing toward them, board shorts and a modest bikini top hugging her body and a towel draped over her arm. She smiles at him and then turns her attention to William with a respectful salute. “Overwatch officially reporting for duty. I’m not too late, am I?” she asks as she feigns fear.

William salutes her. “Right on time, Overwatch! Now we have to scour the ocean for the underwater base the Queen might be held in.”

Felicity tosses the towel onto a nearby chair and dives right in, gliding beneath the surface like a mermaid before coming up and requesting more information before doing her part in the scouring.

Oliver watches her interact with William and feels a strange pull within his heart. A sense of longing - a need to have something like this… all the time. His connection to Samantha ended not long after William was born, the chaos of new parenthood solidifying what they had known but not accepted. They had plenty of issues they could never resolve. They possessed no more chemistry and none of the love they had started with. But now they share custody and work around Oliver’s turbulent and often unstable assignments, no complaints or refusals regardless of location or hours. L.A. is a long way from Starling, but flights are cheap and Samantha loves vacations.

She’s enjoying her typical spa and pampering routine while he enjoys a weekend with William. But, deep down, he knows how it must feel for his son to see the instability within their carefully crafted schedules and all of the separation co-parenting creates. He sees the way William looks at him when he interacts with women, and he certainly hadn’t missed the look he shot between him and Felicity. It was his secret mission face mixed with the beaming smile he reserves only for perfect family time. It sets Oliver’s heart to aching.

Felicity swims beneath the water for a long while, then resurfaces a few moments later shaking her head. “No luck, Arsenal. Are you certain the Queen is being held beneath the waves?”

“Well, I…” William scratches his head in confusion. “I suppose they could have transferred her to a super-secret location. Any ideas, Overwatch?”

Felicity glances over at Oliver and winks before nodding at William. “I have an idea.” Then she pulls herself out of the pool, water dripping from her board shorts and her hair plastered to her face and neck. “Follow me, Green Arrow and Arsenal. And stay alert!”

William looks to Oliver for some sort of answer or clarification but he simply shrugs. “I don’t know, Arsenal. You brought her onto our team. How do you know we can trust her? She could be leading us astray.”

William leaves the pool and crosses his arms, the portrait of Queen family stubbornness that makes Oliver want to laugh with pride and embarrassment. “It is a risk we must take, Green Arrow.” Then, with a raised arm pointing toward Felicity’s retreating form, William shouts, “Onward!”

They follow Felicity up the pathways and into the gardens. Lush. Fragrant. Everything he expects from her and more. Roses everywhere. A fountain in the center. But she avoids all of these lovely treasures and heads straight for the giant willow tree, parting the curtain of leaves for them to enter its shadow before following close behind.

William is awed by the tree. It is tall and its branches begin luxuriously low and close together - perfect to climb. And this must be the plan. Clearly William is meant to climb in search of the Queen. “I believe there’s a great chance that the Queen might be at the top of this tree!” Felicity explains, squinting up toward the topmost branches.

“Really?” William asks as he follows her gaze and squints. He looks back at her and then shifts his attention to Oliver, eyes brightening with the prospect of climbing.

“Yes,” Oliver answers with a nod of encouragement. “It does seem like the perfect place to hide a Queen away. Give it a try, Arsenal! We’ll keep watch!”

William doesn’t hesitate once permission is given. He goes straight for the limb Oliver would have chosen, and he slowly works his way through the tangles of limbs and leaves. It doesn’t take long for him to disappear within the towering green, the only hint of his ascent being the occasional wriggle of a branch.

“Great idea,” Oliver says, nudging Felicity playfully with his elbow.

She smiles and shrugs. “It was the pruny wrinkled hand he used for his handshake that gave me the idea,” she explains. “He’s clearly been in the pool for a while so I figured he needed a new adventure - a change of scene. Well, at least his skin does.”

Oliver chuckles. “You’re pretty good with kids.”

She waves his compliment away. “A few summers of babysitting during high school definitely helped.”

“Thanks again for not being mad about me bringing him here.”

“Again, no reason to thank me. You live here for the time being, so you should feel perfectly comfortable doing as you please. Plus,” she nudges him in the same playful way he had moments before. “This means you feel safe here, even if just a little bit. And that means the world to me. _I_ should be thanking _you_.”

He fights the urge to repeat the reasoning he gave her before, but instead turns his attention to studying her. She’s scoping out William’s progress, letting her eyes focus on shadows and shaking leaves. And in this moment, Oliver sees so many things he previously missed about her. The natural waves and curls of her hair as it dries, so much more authentic than the crimps and straightened harshness she sports on stage. The arch of her brows, both soft and critical all at once. The small pout her bottom lip falls into when she isn’t babbling. The industrial piercing on her right ear. So many contrasts within one woman. Hard and soft. Serious and light. He knows his first assessment of her complexity is still true - even more so now that he’s learned about her past and the secrets she’s running from. But now there’s something more peeking out, showing its face, making itself known. But there’s no way to describe it. He’s unsure and awkward in the face of it, unable to give it a proper name. It feels sudden and out of place, yet perfectly fits within the narrative they are creating. And as Felicity shouts up to William for an update, he realizes he’s been fighting something from the moment he met her, something he’s told himself never to acquire during a job.

He’s developing a connection with Felicity. He thrives on her happiness and safety. He feeds off her smiles and basks in the radiance of her complexity. She’s a light in the darkness of his scary world. She’s one to rest alongside the vibrancy William creates.

And even as he ponders the realization, he feels something else.

He’s scared shitless.

 

\---

 

Oliver is driving William to the hotel he’s staying at with his mother. Felicity’s late night performance downtown makes it impossible for William to stay at the mansion - everyone hopes it runs smoothly compared to the last one. It pains Oliver to only have mere hours with his son, but the job is essential. It keeps William’s private school tuition paid for and keeps him in good standing with Samantha.

“We’ll go to the pier tomorrow, buddy,” Oliver promises.

“Can Felicity go too?”

Oliver glances at his son as they are stopped at a red light. William is completely serious and his hopeful grin makes Oliver chuckle. “You like Felicity, don’t you?”

William nods. “Of course! She’s _famous_.”

“That matters to you?”

William’s mouth drops open in shock. “It matters to _everyone_.”

“Oh,” Oliver mumbles as they cross the intersection. “Right.”

A silence resides between them for a bit, the only sound in the car the light play of the radio. Felicity’s most recent ballad begins and William turns the volume up slightly. “Don’t you like her, dad?”

Oliver keeps his eyes locked on the road and his hands begin to grip the wheel tighter. “She’s a nice lady.”

“No,” William says, dismissing the answer - even Oliver knows how weak it is. “I mean, don’t you _like_ her?”

Oliver’s brow shoots up at the emphasis. “What does that even mean?”

William lets out an impatient huff and says, “You wanna kiss her, don’t you?” Oliver shakes his head quickly and William laughs. “You’re lying, dad. I always know when you are and you’re _totally_ lying right now!”

“I don’t want to kiss Felicity Smoak,” Oliver says, voice thick with the nerves of his lie.

“Lies!”

“This is grown up stuff, buddy. Kissing is serious business and-”

William holds up his hands in interruption. “Oh I know! Bethany won’t stop following me around at school ever since I kissed her cheek on the basketball court.”

They pull into the hotel valet and Oliver parks the car to the side, then turns to face his son. “You’ve kissed someone?”

William nods. “Just on the cheek.”

“And why have I not heard of this until now?” he asks, shocked that Samantha never told him.

William reads his mind. “Cause I never told mom.” There’s a second of silence before William realizes what he’s said and then he shifts in his seat to face Oliver, a look of panic in his eyes. “Don’t tell her!”

“Why not?”

“She’ll freak out!”

Oliver throws his head back in laughter. Once he composes himself he says, “I thought it was _just_ her cheek. I’m sure your mom won’t care.”

William rolls his eyes dramatically. “Dad, this is mom we’re talking about.”

“Fair point.” Oliver shuts the car off and unbuckles his seatbelt, slowly opening his door. “I won’t tell her.”

“Thanks,” William answers, then grins mischievously. “And I won’t tell her that you wanna kiss Felicity Smoak.”

 

\---

 

“You’re not gonna leave us again are you?” Rory asks as they wait by the limo.

Oliver chuckles. “As long as nothing goes wrong tonight.”

“What a lovely promise there, Mr. Queen.” Rene rolls his eyes, posture tense in his suit.

“This is about Felicity, not your wounded egos.”

Before they can respond, Felicity arrives, cloaked to hide her costume but hair and makeup magnificent. The last time he saw her, she was sun-kissed with hair caked in drying chlorine from the pool. The transformation is intense - two women within one. He respects both versions of Felicity Smoak and the importance each role has on her life. He knows there’s so much more to her than just these two, knows there’s another identity that he has little knowledge of. _Megan Kuttler,_ he thinks, turning the name around in his mind. _I wonder what she was really like…_

“Are we ready?” Felicity asks, brow raised and heeled foot tapping against the driveway.

Oliver opens the door and smiles. “After you.”

She brushes by him and slides into the limo, the intoxicatingly sweet scent of her body wash wafting over him. He allows the other men to enter first and then slides in last. “Remember to use the comms at all times tonight. This will prevent any unfortunate miscommunication.”

Rene presses the button hidden within his jacket pocket. “You mean like leaving us behind?”

The words are magnified with the proximity to the other men’s mics - heard both directly and within the comm system multiples times. It hurts and Rory glares at Rene. “Seriously?”

Rene shrugs. “He said at all times.”

“Within reason,” Felicity says before Oliver can answer. “Stop being difficult, Rene.”

Within the comm system, Curtis speaks. “I’m glad I’m not on this with you. I _will_ let you know that the venue has given me com _plete_ access to their security cameras, thanks in part but mostly to my expert skills in the art of small talk… or maybe just because they’d rather not have to close up shop to clean up blood stains. _Anyways_. I’ll let you know if anything suspicious happens.”

Oliver frowns. This is a good and bad sign. If Helix taps into their own security systems, it is highly likely that they are doing the same thing with the venue if they are aware of her performance. He hopes the secrecy of the whole thing will make it harder for them to track, but he doesn’t hold his breath. _We aren’t that lucky._

He keeps his eyes on Felicity. She fidgets constantly with the hem of her cloak, picking at loose threads and folding it this way and that. Her lips are set in a pout and he can’t help but think of William’s words. “ _And I won’t tell her that you wanna kiss Felicity Smoak.”_

Did he want to kiss her? His eyes linger there on that pout, memorizing the curves of her skin and the little imperfections of the matte lipstick she wears. There aren’t many imperfections where Felicity Smoak is concerned, just microscopic ones that the average person might not catch.

But he’s paid to notice the little things, to observe and learn what he can from his observations. Normally this isn’t problematic. Normally he’s able to keep the studies from impacting him personally. But Felicity is something entirely different. She’s intrigued him and broken through the wall that separates professional Oliver from personal, functioning human Oliver. It doesn’t take much for him to understand how it began and what sealed the deal.

Her interactions with Will cemented her place in his world, whatever that place is - it’s unclear and with her future so uncertain, he fights his desire to be hopeful.

But then she looks at him with blue eyes begging for reassurance - for something to calm her nerves and cease her fidgeting. He gives her a smile he hopes reads as confident and it must be in some way as her face softens, eyes lose some of their darkness and Felicity smiles back.

“Employee entrance or front?” Robbie asks from the front of the limo, through the window separating him from the tense reality they reside in.

“Employee entrance,” Oliver says. “Always.”

“Got it, boss.” Robbie confirms.

Felicity’s smile widens at the exchange but Rene clears his throat, shifting in annoyance with a shake of his head. Rory nudges him in warning.

“What?” Rene spits out. “Everyone is kissing Queen’s ass like he’s the second coming of Christ, but he’s done nothing to keep her safe. We’ve lost guards.”

“She’s still alive.” Rory says. He’s clearly getting impatient with Rene.

“We lost friends, Rory!” Felicity closes her eyes at Rene’s words and an ache takes up residency in Oliver’s heart. The guilt is still there beneath the facade… beneath the mask she wears.

“Cool it, Rene.” Oliver hisses.

“No! I’m not taking orders from you, Queen. You show zero remorse for the loss of those men - good men. Friends. You’ve done nothing to keep these threats at bay, and I’m sick of going along with your bullshit.”

“Rene.” Felicity mumbles. It’s a warning but so low that it doesn’t land.

“I’ve worked with the police regarding the incident at the club, and tightened security around the property. Let’s not get started on training your sorry asses in more developed combat, and training Felicity in basic self-defense. So please, tell me what more I can do to meet your standards, Rene.”

A strong silence fills the limo, oozing awkwardness and rage. Felicity’s fidgeting has returned, but her face speaks to the anger she’s fighting to withhold. After a few minutes, Rene clears his throat and asks a simple question. Oliver knows Rene expects to stump him with it. “Did you even know their names?”

Oliver doesn’t even hesitate. “Andre McCloud. Dennis Leary. Ray Palmer.” Oliver looks directly into Rene’s eyes, and takes a deep breath. “I met with their families shortly after they were taken to the coroner’s. I may have only known them for a short time, Rene, but I knew them.”

The silence returns even heavier than before, laced with the regret they all feel - the what might have been, what they could have done, what they should have done… It is all there weighing each person down. Felicity reaches out and takes Oliver’s hand and squeezes it gently. Then she reaches over, across the foot space between seats and grasps Rene’s hand. She squeezes it just as gently and Rene fights back his smile, settling for a crooked grin that, to some, might be charming.

“We’re here,” Robbie says from the front as the limo comes to a stop. Oliver looks out and sees the back entrance of a club, very similar to the one weeks before, only much more crowded. “Seems folks caught on to your preference for employee entrances.”

Oliver frowns but shakes his irritation off. “It’s fine. We can handle this, just keep formation. Felicity,” he says, turning to her to find her nervousness mixed with something verging one excitement. “You don’t have to stop for photos or autographs if you don’t want to.”

She shakes her head and sheds her cloak to reveal the costume beneath - all black and pink leather. “They wanna see me. They are getting more than a wave from me, Oliver.”

He nods and opens the door. He steps out to a roar of excited voices chanting for Felicity. “Smoak! Smoak! Smoak!” they chant, whistles and unintelligible phrases mixed in. He reaches into the limo and her hand slides instinctively - perfectly -  into his. He pulls her out and the crowd erupts into a senseless cacophony. She jumps up and down, waving and blowing kisses at the crowd. Rene and Rory exit the limo and flank Felicity on either side.

They move together, a single unit, as Felicity says hello to her fans. She takes selfies, signs photos and even skin, all smiles and confidence. That complicated, multi-layered woman is proving her complexity once again and Oliver can’t help but watch her in fascination, his attention flitting between her radiant presence beneath the spotlight and the raucous crowd beyond.

She tosses her hair playfully. She kisses cheeks and hugs complete strangers with ease. She swings her hips with each stride, graceful and sexy in her high heels. She is all smiles. No one would ever know that she’s still fearing for her life.

They reach the back door and the club manager is standing there with Caitlin Snow, both grinning broadly. Oliver enters the building first and then the rest follow. They are ferried into a dressing room and Felicity runs her hands through her hair, adds another layer of lipstick. The three men go over a plan of action: Rene in the crowd, Rory on stage right and Oliver at stage left. Curtis is still scanning the cameras, looking for suspicious activity. As they all make for their respective spots, Rene halts in the doorway.

“I guess I owe you an apology,” he murmurs, almost too low to hear.

“Yeah, I guess you do,” Oliver answers.

They both stare at each other until grins spread across their lips and they both let out faint chuckles. Rene offers Oliver his hand and Oliver takes it without hesitation and shakes it. “I apologize for being a total dick to you.”

“I apologize for coming off as a narcissistic asshole.”

Felicity steps between them as their hands detach, one brow raised in confusion. “Wait, you mean you _aren’t_ a narcissistic asshole?” Then she winks.

The world transforms in that moment. Things feel easier and less complicated. Rene runs off toward his position and, surprisingly, utilizes the comms. Rory is quiet as usual and Curtis babbles over comms, clearly bored of the repetitiveness of the feeds. “At least you get to watch the show,” Rory says awkwardly.

“I can’t hear the music, Rory.”

“Oh, right.”

Oliver takes his place on stage left and watches as Felicity steps onto the stage, hidden from the audience by the velvety curtain. She glances in his direction and he gives her a thumbs up, and she nods in acknowledgement. Then the music begins to build and the curtain rises, revealing the stage version of Felicity Smoak.

 

\---

 

She’s supposed to play a set of three songs: two raucous showstoppers and one ballad. She’s had this planned for months but even with rehearsals and constant planning, her heart still pounds as the curtain rises and the spotlight blocks out the crowd beyond.

It isn’t a simple case of remembering the steps and hoping the lyrics of each song come to mind in time. There’s more to every performance now. More at stake.

Any of the shadowy figures beyond the stage could be an insane gunman - a loyalist to Helix or a hired gun... either way the possibility is terrifying.

As the music swells and her lips form each word she sings - words she wrote over so many fattening pizzas and boxed red wine - the memory of that night years before assaults her.

The bar doesn’t exist now. A victim of the recession that destroyed so many businesses, both rapidly and slowly over time. Back then it was a safe haven for talented outcasts and stereotypical karaoke narcissists. She was a regular, on first name basis with the bartender and bouncer. They knew her drink and her favorite table, never questioned why she was always alone and _always_ walked her to her car after closing.

It took her a long time to work up the courage to sing and even longer to choose the song. But it jumped out at her, the listing in the song book almost calling to her… begging to be her’s. So she wrote it on a slip and put herself in rotation between a plastered cowboy wannabe singing _Beer For My Horses_ and a depressing lightweight feigning the skill to sing _Set Fire To The Rain_.

She hadn’t expected a standing ovation for _Sunday Morning_ by Maroon 5 but she got it, cheers and drunken wolf-whistles in accompaniment. She just sang what she loved, what kept her calm and willing to dream. It was one of her favorites.

The moment she left the stage, she was confronted by a tall woman in a tight fitting suit with vampiress style lipstick caked on her lips. She was smiling widely, encouragingly and stuck out her hand. She said a name that Felicity had been vaguely aware of as one of the biggest producers in the business and then slipped a card into her hand before exiting the bar. Smooth. Poised. _Vampiress._

Felicity quickly got her friend Caitlin to represent her and the rest was history. A history that has her on stage singing her most popular anthem to the crowd despite her overwhelming fear.

_Keep it together, Smoak!_

She glances over into the darkness of stage left to see Oliver watching her, hand pressed to his ear to hear any updates the guys may have. He seems confident. No evidence of fear or looming movement. He is just a pillar backstage, holding her up and away from the monsters that threaten the very voice that leaves her mouth.

The song ends and she greets the audience before the lights dim and the band begins to play the quiet ballad. A vulnerable song. Her most vulnerable song.

She glimpses cell phone screens lighting up in the crowd and swaying from side to side. Not as romantic as old-fashioned lighters but much safer given the tightly packed venue. She walks about the stage, heels clicking along with each step but only felt by her. No sound but the song and the occasional exclamation from the crowd.

Felicity is about to move into the final verse when all of the lights shut off and the sound system dies. The band ceases their playing and all goes quiet but for a confused murmur from the audience. From stage left she hears Oliver speaking into the comms. “Curtis, do you have visual? Then get it! What do you mean you’re locked out? You were given exclusive access.”

A projection begins behind her and the speakers begin to hum. She turns to see a distorted image of Helix’s logo: a double helix. The hum in the speakers transforms into a crackling akin to television static. It is laced with whispers though she’s unsure if everyone else detects them. The sight of the symbol - such a staple and destructive entity of her past - is terrifying. A roiling settles in her stomach and her head feels light. Then a warped voice rings out.

“Hello, Megan,” it says, just as Oliver comes to her side. He tugs at her arm but she resists his demand that she leave. She has to see this. She has to hear this. “We’ve found you. You can make this easy or you can make this eas _ier_. The choice is yours. But quite the killer is on your heels, ready when we give the go-ahead. Decide quickly. Choose wisely.”

Then the screen flashes with the outline of a man - the same man from her laptop screen - and then darkness. The static hum disappears and the crowd transforms into a sea of terrified murmurs. Everyone is already speculating and throwing out theories.

Oliver tugs on her arm once more. “We need to leave, Felicity.”

She looks up at him and nods. “You’re right,” she says.  And she lets him lead her away. Caitlin is on the phone, shouting frantically about the whole situation, clearly evading reporters who have already caught wind of the whole situation. She reaches out to hug Felicity before they part ways. Oliver grabs his phone and she sees him dial John Diggle’s number. He murmurs into the comms to Rory and Rene, telling them to meet them at the limo.

“Digg, this is getting worse,” he says without preamble.

Felicity watches Oliver’s face as Diggle speaks, hoping for some sign of the direction the conversation is taking.

“No. We lost visual and we lost access to their systems. All we have is however many videos of this are posted online.”

Silence falls as Oliver listens, leading them out the back door and to the limo. She rushes to the open door and sinks into the leather seat. She wraps her cloak around her and closes her eyes. She feels the three men enter and then the door closes. The engine revs and then they are zooming away from the venue.

“We’re heading back to the mansion now.” Oliver nods and reaches for her hand. She slips it out of the folds of her cloak and laces her fingers with his. “We’ll meet you there.”

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think!? Don't forget to comment and leave kudos!
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	4. Songs That Tell The Story

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the long wait for this chapter! It has been very nearly done for a while, but a few scenes were giving me trouble! I hope you enjoy this long overdue update! Let me know what you think of it in the comments! 
> 
> Also, there are some references to characters from DC Comics in this chapter, and one is one of my ALL TIME FAVORITES. I can't wait to start writing him into the story and I hope you enjoy all of their inclusions.

* * *

 

“Okay,” Diggle says, eyes wide and fingers pressed to his temples. Beside him, Lyla rubs his back, smoothly and with all the natural ease of married couples. “Tell me everything one more time.”

Felicity shakes her head. “Just watch one of the millions of videos going around.”

“I want it from you guys. Every little detail.”

So she tells him everything again, every detail. And then the guys tell it from their perspective. Every visual. Every word. The smallest, most miniscule points in the evening coming to light for examination. Curtis is unsure how Helix broke through. Rene and Rory saw no one near the sound and visual booth other than the actual techs, all of whom Felicity knows personally. No one felt out of place.

“They had to have done everything remotely,” Diggle decides once everyone has told their version of events. “If that’s the case, and if they are impossible to track, then we’ll have to place our resources in a more old-fashioned security solution.”

Oliver scoffs at that. “I’ve already implemented those changes.”

Diggle looks at everyone and then nods. “I can see that. Everyone’s been working in a more cohesive unit and that thrills me. But -”

“You need more men,” Lyla jumps in.

Diggle nods. “You need more men.”

“We’ve discussed that, but you haven’t found any matches… good fits.”

Felicity can sense Oliver’s frustration building. All of the fear, the intensity and what can only feel like something similar to inadequacy… all of it is written on his face, just beneath his professional facade. She gets it. They’ve given Felicity plenty of files, all of them loaded with facts and terms that overload her mind. Weapon preferences. Combat styles. Tech specialities. They always blur together and, in the end, none of them feel like the right choices.

“We have some that we insist you approve,” Lyla says, voice stern but etched with a gentle edge. “These are our most qualified and skilled operatives, outside of Oliver, of course.”

Lyla hands Felicity a set of three file folders. “Only three?”

Diggle grins. “With these three  _ and  _ Oliver heading your team, you won’t need much else.”

As she dives into the first folder, Rene and Rory speak up. She ignores them to study the contents.

Lucas Trent. The photo shows a harsh face, arched brows and closely cropped hair. Much of the same training as Oliver but with several additional degrees and certifications, some within technology. He seems ideal, all the way across the board a perfect fit to lead with Oliver. She thinks of Rene… of his distaste for Oliver and the animosity that has only now begun to recede. She wonders how he and the rest of the team will get along with someone of the same caliber as Oliver.

_ There’s no way out of that,  _ she reminds herself.  _ I have to say yes to him. _

She takes a look at the next file.

Mercy Graves. A woman. Blonde with a long braid draped over her left shoulder. Oval face with critical eyes staring out at the camera - at Felicity. Her credentials are massive, with previous jobs employed at LexCorp as security and armed detail escorting the CEO to and from international meetings. Her qualifications are much the same as Oliver, but with a special interest in hand-to-hand combat.

_ Never had a woman on the team,  _ Felicity thinks with a grin.  _ ‘Bout time, I suppose. _

The final file is for a man named Christopher Chance. His face is forgettable - nothing special. But his resume is layered with list upon list of jobs leading bodyguard detail, all with special certifications in strategic analysis and expertise in a wide range of firearms.

Felicity continues to hold the files and memorizes the photos and information within. Then she hands Digg the folders and nods. “I approve,” she says, sensing Oliver stirring next to her, nervous and impatient. “They seem great,” she adds, drowning her words in as much positivity as she can muster.

“Why do I sense a  _ but  _ coming?” John asks, arms crossed across his broad chest in obvious impatience. He can read Felicity so well… with no bullshit or sugar-coating.

“But will the team work well with them?”

John Diggle sighs. “They don’t have much of a choice.”

“How soon can we get them here?” Oliver asks.

“The end of the week?” Lyla suggests questioningly.

“Perfect,” both Oliver and Felicity say at once.

  
\---

 

She hears him bustling about his room before she’s aware of much else. Normally he is quiet - mysterious and silent, as if his very existence relies heavily on not being noticed. And she supposes that’s true for his profession. But in his personal spaces, within her home, he is still a ghost in the halls.

But she hears him now, moving around his room next to hers. She glances over at the clock. It reads  _ 7:43am _ . She lets out a little groan but continues to listen, imagining his movements and the purpose of each one. She can hear drawers opening and closing, doors creaking and clicking closed. Then she hears a voice. An excited voice.

“Is she coming with us, dad?”

“Buddy, you have to be quiet… people are still sleeping,” Oliver replies in a hushed tone, ignoring the question completely.

“I just wanna know if Felicity is coming with us.”

Felicity grins at this and slides out of bed. She wraps her robe around her and then knocks on the door that separates their two bedrooms.

_ One door. Just one door.  _ The thought gets her heart racing at night when she knows he’s in bed like she is, wrapped in the sheets staring at the ceiling.  _ Does he have a hard time sleeping too? _

The knob of the door turns and her heart stops for a moment.  _ It isn’t locked. _

The door opens slightly and Oliver peeks his head through the crack with a puzzled expression etched on his face. She never knocks on his door and he’s never knocked on hers. “Everything okay?”

She nods. “Where are we going?” she asks with a grin after a moment of composing herself.

“I’m taking Will to the pier for the day.”

She looks down at her bare feet, then looks up through her lashes at him. “Can I go?” And after a moment of silence, she adds, “Since Will asked.”

Oliver straightens and looks backward into his room, then back at her in frustration. “You heard that?”

She nods again. “If you don’t want me to join you guys, that’s fine. I just overheard him and thought I’d let you know that I’m available.”

After a moment of silence, Felicity realizes her words

Oliver rests his head against the doorframe. Somewhere behind him William shouts, “Is that Felicity? Are you coming with us, Felicity?”

After a moment, Oliver lifts his head and eyes her, waiting. She can see a slight tinge of hopefulness suddenly appear in his eyes before it flickers out, back to unreadable blue. She grins and then says, “Most definitely! I’ll meet you guys downstairs.”

As the door shuts, she rushes to her closet and procures a swimsuit, pair of faded old shorts and a button up plaid shirt, tattered along the edges. She slips into everything, brushes her hair into a ponytail and then grabs a pair of flip flops. She exits her room to find Will leaning against the wall across from the door.

“Felicity!” he shouts excitedly, then clears his throat and whispers, “Overwatch.”

“Arsenal.” She gives him a serious salute. “I trust that all missions have been successful since our last team-up?”

He nods. “Successful with zero complications.”

Felicity looks around then back to Will. “Where’s your dad?”

“He’s already downstairs. Said he needed to check the security system before we leave.” Felicity nods and the look on Will’s face says there’s more. She raises a brow and he grins. “He’s also entrusted me to bring you downstairs unharmed.”

“Oh, he did, did he?”

William nods. “Yes. So please, stay behind me.”

“But, I thought I was capable to more than being a damsel in distress…” she feigns a whine and pout.

William turns and frowns. “Unfortunately I don’t make the rules, Overwatch. Green Arrow is in charge of today’s mission.”

Felicity points toward the hallway, ushering William forward and in front of her. “Lead the way, Arsenal.”

They move through the hallway slowly - cautiously. William stops every few feet, finger touched to his lips, and looks around. If he were a dog, his ears would be perked up in surveillant interest. Their footsteps are light as they go and William glares back at her if she makes any unnecessary noise.

Finally they make it down the stairs and to the front door. Oliver is waiting. “I trust you found no trouble along the way, Arsenal?” he asks as he opens the door, a grin spreading across his lips.

“No trouble. Probably a calm before the storm.”

 

\---

 

The clouds give way to sunshine as they park the car in a public parking lot a few minutes from the pier. The sound of the waves travels on the breeze and hits their ears as if calling their names. Oliver breathes deeply, then turns toward his son and the woman the universe has thrown into his life. William and Felicity chat and laugh, still using their nicknames and he can’t help but smile at the absurdity of it all. The closeness that has developed from just a few simple interactions. 

He turns away and grabs the backpack he’s stuffed with towels and sunscreen and a few bottles of water.  _ Always prepared,  _ he thinks. Samantha always found his obsession with preparedness silly. Obnoxious, even.

“Need any help?” Felicity asks.

He shakes his head. “Nope,” he answers. “I’ve got it.”

“Onward!” William shouts, then rushes forward in the direction of the waves.

They walk at a steady pace to match William’s impatience and soon find themselves at the start of the pier. The roller coaster is beginning to climb the lift hill and the ferris wheel is slowly turning. Rotation after rotation, in sync with the lulling tide. “What should we do first?” Felicity asks.

“Roller coaster!” William shouts.

They get tickets for the rides and spend the next few hours riding them over and over, no end in sight. Once the tickets run dry, they make their way off the pier and onto the beach. Sandals off, toes in sand, they walk along the beach.

“How about here?” William asks.

Oliver nods. “Perfect spot, buddy!”

They plop down onto the sand and a silence falls between them as William runs to the water, splashing about excitedly. Oliver watches his boy play and sees the changes that have taken place in such a short amount of time.

William has lost some of his baby fat and has grown a good few inches. He’s looking more and more like a young man, and the prospect of time terrifies Oliver.  _ Wasn’t it just yesterday that he was a crying bundle in my arms?  _ The memory of baby William make Oliver frown, hands sinking into the sand with each second of remembrance.

“You okay?”

He turns and looks at Felicity. Her hair is lifting off her shoulders with the wind and sand has already begun to clutch at her skin. Her eyes are focused on him with a true concern - genuine and soft. So much like her personality.

“Just feeling lost in time, I suppose,” he finally answers. He pulls his hands from the scratchy depths and lets the sand trickle through his fingers, grain by grain. “He’s growing up so fast.”

“I hear kids do that,” Felicity murmurs. She is mimicking his movements, playing with the sand. “But you’ve clearly done a good job with him. He’s a great kid, Oliver.”

His eyes meet hers and he can’t help but lose himself in them. His fears and desires collide within him as they have countless times before when he finds himself stunned in her presence, and all he can do is look away. Connection broken. Defenses drawn back up. “Thank you, Felicity.”

The silence returns for what seems an eternity until William returns to them. “Why aren’t you guys getting in the water?”

Felicity hops up and dusts some of the sand from her legs, then makes a run for it. William looks at Oliver and then laughs his most playful laugh before rushing after her.

Oliver remains in his place for a moment, watching the scene unfold before him. William and Felicity crash into the water and squeal about how cold it is, then slowly make their way into deeper water, moving against the tide as it rolls. It is something he has missed. Something that he hasn’t realized was missing until now.

_ Family. _

 

\---

  
It is early evening when they head to the hotel to drop William off. William is asleep in the backseat, head against the door and mouth agape and Felicity is looking out her own window, quiet… too quiet. 

Oliver turns the radio on and one of her songs is playing. A ballad. The same ballad from the other night. He recalls how passionately she sang the song and the pain in her eyes as she belted out each word. Beside him, she sighs. A sad sound. Almost impatient as well.

“I can change the station, if you want,” he says, hand already reaching for the tuning knob.

“No,” she murmurs. “It’s fine. This song just reminds me of a lot of… stuff.”

“The threats?”

Out of the corner of his eye he can see her shaking her head. “No. Well, I mean, yeah. That’s there too. But it really just reminds me of this industry and the abuse.”

Oliver resists the urge to plant his foot on the brake pedal and stop the car. But he keeps himself level - cool and relaxed, as he has trained himself to be - and asks, “What do you mean, abuse?”

Felicity breathes out another sigh and then turns the volume up a little more. “Listen to the lyrics.”

He does. Every word speaks of loneliness in the spotlight and fear within the shadows, groping hands and aggressive chatter… forceful instruction and lost identity. Within the song, he understands how Felicity Smoak has been treated for years. A pawn in a money game. A prized performer forced to present themselves to the massive regardless of their own personal desires.

“How long were you forced to perform?”

“Since the very beginning, honestly.” She taps her fingers against her bare legs, nervous and vulnerable, and he longs to wrap his hand around hers to shelter it, to let her know that he can protect her. But he doesn’t and soon she is speaking once more. “When I started in this industry, most of the execs didn’t want me performing my own music… I rarely wrote my own stuff and when I did they acted like it wasn’t good enough. I was belittled and forced into certain roles. Diets. Clothes. Nothing was me.”

Oliver merges onto the exit ramp, William’s hotel glowing in the distance as a reminder of the world around them - the new world his job has thrust them into. “What changed?”

“I left my original label. I couldn’t take the stress anymore. And then my new managers and producers were supportive of my vision. And this song,” she says, pointing at the radio with a smile. “This song was the first one I wrote when I was finally free.”

They pull into the hotel drive and stop by the door. Oliver waves the doorman and valets away, then opens his door. Before closing it to retrieve his son from the backseat, he reaches over and grips Felicity’s still tapping hand and squeezes. “I am so glad you made it out.”

  
  


\---

  
  


They are training as usual, her closed fists flying against the punching bag with a force she hadn’t originally utilized. He can tell she enjoys it - an outlet for her fear and rage. Ever since they began weeks before, she has been so much more confident. No longer playing the victim. But now she is quiet. Each punch seems labored with something. It usually means she’s worrying about something or waiting for the perfect opportunity to say something. He’s betting she has something to say or, more likely, something to ask. 

“Spit it out, Felicity.”

She halts her progress mid-punch and spins around, ponytail whipping about. “Spit what out, exactly?”

He grins, brow rising in challenge as he steps forward with his arms crossed. “Whatever it is that has you slowing down.”

Her back straightens in a defensive stance and she adds a little speed to her punches for good measure. “I am  _ not _ slowing down.”

“You were.”

“No.”

“Say whatever it is you need to say, Felicity,” he urges with a tone of finality.

She sighs in defeat. “I just… well… I have a request.”

Oliver grins as a wave of satisfaction rushes through him at his correct assessment. He’s grasping her cues much more quickly than he thought he would and learning how to encourage her. “Okay?”

“I have tickets to a concert.”

“A concert.”

“Yes. I’ve had the tickets for a while now. Since before the death threats and gunfire and insane suicidal hitmen.”

The pitiful pout that deepens on her lips is adorable and he can’t help but grin wider. “And you’re worried I won’t let you go?”

She nods. “Exactly.”

“You’d be correct.”

She hangs her head, eyes shadowed by her lashes as she turns and lets her fist connect with the bag once more. Now she is back to her old self, letting her feelings fall onto the leather with each thrust of her arms and collision of her knuckles. He steps closer, directly behind her, and touches her shoulder. She stills almost immediately and looks back at him. “What?” she asks coldly.

“You’d be correct that I wouldn’t let you go  _ alone _ .”

She turns around just slightly and eyes him, brow raised. “Will you go with me, then?”

He fights of the smile that longs to take hold of his lips and says, “When is it?”

Felicity looks at her watch. “Two hours from now.”

She puts on a face of innocence and it is one of the most adorable things he’s ever seen, coupled with the tape around her knuckles and the sweat forming on her brow. It is a face begging for leniency… for understanding and compliance. He chuckles, unable to keep his amusement buried. “Well, you better go get ready!”

Her face brightens. “Really? We’re going?”

He nods.

She lets out a little squeal of happiness and jumps at him, arms encircling his neck in a hug that oozes with her excitement. His eyes close instinctively as he wraps her in his arms and lifts, breathing in her scent. Sweat mixed with a sugary sweetness that he assumes is her body wash or lotion. Her warmth and buzzing enthusiasm seeps out and he can’t help but tighten his arms, luxuriating in the embrace. “Thank you,” she whispers into his ear.

“You’re very welcome,” he replies.

And then she escapes his arms and rushes out of the gym in a flurry of excited chatter and bobbing ponytail. He stays frozen in the middle of the room as her scent slowly dissipates and he’s left to himself. She’s taking over his every thought, professional and casual. Everything is her and it baffles him that he’s allowed himself to get this far.

He’s unsure how long he stands there like a confused statue, but he’s certain it is longer than appropriate. With a deep breath to calm his nerves, he leaves the gym and makes his way through the quiet mansion to his bedroom. The bedroom beside Felicity’s.  _ The bedroom  _ connected  _ to Felicity’s. _

The reality of those words hits him. Before, it had simply been a fact… a simple fact that made his job easier if something were to happen. But now it means something completely different. She’s just one door away. One doorknob. One lock.  _ One door away.  _ He can imagine rushing through that door, passion driving every muscle in his body to find her. He can imagine her surprise. He can imagine her confusion. And then, with so much ease, he can imagine her lips welcoming his and her hands grasping with the same intensity that his do. It would only take a moment. But he restrains himself.

He goes to his closet and selects a black and grey henley and an old pair of jeans. He goes to the bathroom and slips out of his t-shirt and gym shorts, then washes his face. He looks in the mirror for a moment, keenly aware of the bags under his eyes from nights combing through video feeds and checking their security system’s encryption like Felicity and Curtis had shown him. He wets his hands once more and runs his fingers through his hair, hoping it is somewhat presentable.

He slips into his clothes and, after choosing a pair of old boots, completes the whole ensemble with a couple sprays of cologne. He fetches his watch from the bedside table and fastens it around his wrist, the time showcasing that they have about an hour and fifteen minutes before the concert. He’s not sure where it is, who is playing… nothing. Typically such unknown variables would lead him away from such outings, but her happiness at the idea of going to the concert outweighs his nerves.

He takes one last look in a mirror, grabs his keys and then leaves the room. As he closes the door behind him, he hears a second door click shut and turns to find Felicity stepping out of her room. She’s in a button up plaid shirt, jeans that fit her body perfectly and a pair of ankle boots. Around her neck is a black choker.

She grins. He grins back.  _ Why are you acting like a socially awkward teenager?  _ he chides himself even as she strides to his side and looks so pleased and excited, everything he’s always wanted and yet never known he wanted until now. “Are you gonna tell me where the concert is?”

She shakes her head. “I was hoping that I could drive.”

“Really?”

She frowns. “Why are you acting so surprised? You don’t think I can drive?”

“No! That’s not it.”

“Then what is it?”

He looks away with what can only be described as sheepishness.  _ When have I ever been sheepish?  _ He clears his throat and says, “Well, I was hoping we could take my bike.”

“Bike? Like, a bicycle?”

“ _ Motor _ cycle,” he corrects.

Her brows rise in surprise and something happens within the depths of her blue eyes, small and almost missable, but he sees it - grasps it with his own enthusiasm. Her eyes darken slightly in something resembling lust. “Motorcycle, huh?”

He nods. “Yep.”

“Well, you definitely should have led with that.”

He chuckles. “I wanted it to be a surprise.”

She nudges him in their usual playful way. “It is definitely still a surprise.”

And then they are rushing down the hallway, his hand flying back to grab hers. Their fingers lace -  _ lock _ \- and he can feel the energy of her excitement rushing through the skin that touches. He’s become addicted to her touch… to touching her, and he knows for certain he’s never felt that kind of intensity before. He’s touched numerous women, and enjoyed every occurrence. But Felicity Smoak is something completely different.

Touching Felicity Smoak, even innocently, is fire and ice, hot and cold, love and hate. Every possible contradiction wrapped up in one woman… in one single touch.

They race through the house and out to the garage, weaving between the cars until they are flanking his bike on both sides. Felicity eyes it curiously and, if he’s sure, a bit of wariness. “Have you ever been on a motorcycle before?” he asks.

She shakes her head. “Can’t say that I have.”

He tosses her a helmet with a grin and says, “First time for everything!”

He instructs her on the ins and outs of the bike, and while he’s used to most people being bored out of their minds, she seems completely interested. Hanging on his every word with a genuine curiosity twinkling in her eyes. Then they are mounting the bike and her arms wrap around his waist until her hands lock. He eyes them, the softness and gentleness evident even through his shirt. He revs the engine and leaves the garage, Felicity’s yelp of surprise at the acceleration making him smile as they pull out of the gate and onto the road just beyond the property.

He has a moment of fear. A millisecond of doubt.  _ Can I protect her? _

Then he recalls her excitement at his acquiescence to her request and he knows, with all certainty he has, that even with his nerves and fear, he has to protect. He  _ will  _ protect.

_ I will protect her. _

They speed through the streets, taking a longer route to the venue than necessary. He has time -  _ they _ have time. They find themselves zooming along the coast, the chilly ocean air refreshing and the sound of waves subtle beneath the roar of his bike.

He’s already planning the rest of the night, sifting through his list of late night eateries he could take her and the perfect beach to walk along in the moonlight. It is so easy. So effortless. It comes so naturally to him and while before it might have scared him, now it excites him. He cannot recall the last time he’s felt so relaxed around someone - least of all a client.

He feels her rest her head against his back and her arms tighten around him, hands easing out of their locked position to grip his shirt. The change sends a thrill through him.

They remain like that until he drives past the venue and finds a spot down the road. He puts enough money into the meter to last well into the night and then places the lock onto the bike.

“Ever have your bike stolen?” she asks.

He looks up and sees the question is serious. “No,” he answers. “I’ve never had my bike stolen.”

She nods.

“What? Are  _ you _ gonna steal it?”

Her eyes narrow and she takes a step closer, placing a hand to his temple poised in the shape of a gun. “Think I could?”

Oliver stands, towering over her and her hand slides along his body until her fingers are pointing at his chest. Her attempt at villainy is adorable. Cute. He laughs and shakes his head. “Definitely not.”

They stare at one another for a few moments, the flirtation - the teasing - new and somehow exciting. Then he takes her hand from its perch along his chest and winds his fingers with hers.

They begin their short walk to the venue, the streetlights coming to life above them with the dimming sky, day shifting to night. She grips his hand higher and he can feel her pulse where their wrists touch, skin and veins caressing with each step. Her strides are shorter than his - he learned that the night of the attack in the club - but she keeps pace as best she can. Her petite frame is endearing and he feels the need to protect her even more.

By the time they line up outside the venue, the world is popcorn lights and neon - downtown atmosphere with an even greater edge of danger. This is not typical. He never indulges clients or supports their whims, but this is refreshing. Locked within the estate, it is clear that Felicity was growing restless of her routine. But out in the world, vulnerable and open, Felicity looks happy.

The line moves and they enter the venue after giving up the tickets. It is dark and smoky, the heat of the stage lights and sound equipment hitting them with a threat of discomfort, but she keeps moving, leading them up to the front of the stage. “A little close, don’t you think?” he whispers into her ear.

She shakes her head. “Not at all. You have to be in the action.”

He leaves her there for a few minutes, security guards beyond the barrier keeping their eyes on her. He recognizes them as other guards Diggle has hired in the past and uses that to create an understanding. He walks to the bar and orders them both a beer, pays and then weaves his way back to her. There’s no way he can squeeze in beside her - the superfans have congregated all over the front of the stage, their tour shirts signed and well-worn.

So he settles into the minimum space given behind her and extends his arm around to offer her the beer. She takes it with a grin and sips it. His arm settles along her waist, protective and somewhat longing. He half expects her to push it away, but Felicity leaves it there, stepping back into him. It feels natural, almost as though she doesn’t realize she’s doing it. He lets it happen, relishing the warmth her excitement and obvious contentment brings even as the crowd closes in and the room fills with a monstrous jumble of voices. But he keeps his senses trained and focused on Felicity. On the sweet smell of her hair and the little shakes and bobs she does in her impatience for the show to begin. Generic music plays over the sound system, vaguely familiar but too drowned out by the filling room to be able to distinguish.

He still has no idea who they are about to see. The name he’s seen plastered on signs and t-shirts does not look familiar - he’s certain he has never heard them before. He thinks back to times in the mansion and on the estate when music was playing but knows for a fact that it was either music he chose or Felicity’s own songs being played during rehearsals. What she listens to when her headphones are in is a mystery.  _ A mystery I now get to solve. _

After about twenty minutes and two empty cups of beer, the lights dim and some pre-show track begins to play, sending the crowd into enthusiastic cheers and chants. Felicity is giddy, jumping up and down with her arms raised, cup still in her hand. Figures slink onto stage in the darkness and don their instruments. A few strings are strummed along a guitar and the crowd erupts into hysterics. Then the music crashes and the lights brighten to reveal the band.

The music is cheery and the lyrics a mixture of whimsical and gritty, but with so much truth. Felicity sings along with each and every verse and chorus, her body rubbing against his unknowingly. He just watches her as she reacts. It is like seeing her for the first time. Her. Truly her. Felicity Smoak. The girl who has been through hell and back without giving up. He knows deep within she’s holding in all of the fear and all of the doubt. He knows she’s grown weary of the constant necessity of looking over her shoulder and being followed by guards everywhere. He knows she’s cried herself to sleep more times than he should be able to count.  _ Twelve,  _ he reminds himself, recalling each and every time he heard her through the door.  _ Twelve times she’s cried herself to sleep and I was too chicken to give her what she needed. What she  _ needs _. _

The first song blends into the next. And then the next. And then a slower, more melancholy song takes the whole audience into a deep, contemplative silence with only a few brave enough to sing the words. Felicity stills. He moves to catch a glimpse of her face and finds her eyes closed as she softly sings along. The lyrics are simple but beautiful and it hits him how she’s overtaken him.

She’s his. There’s no way around it and he doesn’t want a way out or around. He wants to live in this sensation - the desperate longing and intense adoration. He wants to be destroyed by her complexity and yet thrive on the beauty of her simplicity. She’s a woman without fear who fears so much - loss of life and loss of passion, nothing left but to wither away. But he can imagine her living abundantly in his arms.

His feelings, like her, are full of contradictions… conflicting ideals and sensations.

Without realizing it, his arms wrap around her and his face rests next to hers. Her body stiffens for a moment before she relaxes into him, cheek brushing his. He can see her lips parting for a moment before she returns to singing. It is intimate within the intrusive, public space of the crowd and it doesn’t take long for him to forget about the people surrounding them. It is just the band performing for the two of them.

When the song shifts to something upbeat, he has a hard time letting go of her. But he does and the concert continues as it had moments before.

 

\---

 

They leave the concert and don’t go straight to the bike, much to Felicity’s surprise. She’s holding him to his earlier promise of going to the beach despite the late hour. “Where are we going?” she asks, looking at the length of pavement and asphalt lined with old storefronts with curiosity.

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m quite hungry so I figured we could go get some food.”

She races forward and spins around until she’s walking backwards to face him. “I assume you have a place in mind?”

He nods. “Of course.”

“But you’re not gonna tell me…”

“Nope.”

So they walk and for a while Felicity assumes there’s no actual destination. But walking with Oliver is relaxing - the ease with which he guides their progress keeps her from spiraling into her usual worry. They don’t have to speak and she doesn’t have to pretend anymore.

It doesn’t take long for her to reach for his hand, fingers lacing with his in a way that feels so natural. It has been years since Felicity has felt so close to someone, trusting on every level without much trouble. It is refreshing after her years running and hiding from Helix - she had been afraid she would never feel safe again, and even with the repeated threats against her, Oliver gives her the confidence she needs. She’s safe.  _ With him I’m safe. _

His hand is so much larger than hers, enveloping her fingers and warming her skin in the most luxurious way. She cannot help but imagine his hands elsewhere, exploring her…

“We’re here,” Oliver says, breaking through her fantasies.

She looks up to see a famous late-night eatery, line already out the door and music cascading on the wind from the open space. She knows of it - knows their reputation as the best post-bar-hopping food in town, complete with twenty-four hour breakfast items. She smiles. “How did you know I have a thing for midnight breakfast?” she asks with a giggle.

Oliver squeezes her hand. “Lucky guess.”

They line up and wait, hands still locked and bodies close. She playfully nudges him and he responds in kind, a little rhythm escalating between them with each sway and touch. It is silly and romantic and just plain fun, and Felicity loves it.  _ When was the last time I just had fun?  _ She wonders.

They finally get a table and order quickly - Oliver gets a burger and Felicity gets the french toast.

“So,” Oliver says, the word lingering awkwardly in the air between them.

“So…”

“Why that band?”

Felicity tilts her head to the side at the question. “I don’t know. I like them. They’re fun.” She eyes Oliver critically and then grins. “You didn’t like them?”

“Actually, they weren’t half bad,” Oliver admits.

“Did they break through your broody, macho-man exterior shell?” She laughs at her own question and takes a sip of her coffee, not expecting him to dignify her teasing with an answer.

But, as he seems to always do, he surprises her. “Actually, you did.”

She nearly drops her cup. It isn’t what she expects to hear and certainly not something she expects Oliver Queen to say. But within his blue eyes, she can see the sincerity. His words are true. Completely and totally true. And it leaves her speechless.  _ That’s no small feat,  _ she thinks as the shock settles in, and she memorizes the moment. The bitterness of the plain coffee. The retro decor. The smell of frying food and the chatter of hundreds of potentially drunk patrons. And Oliver’s face.

He’s serious and light-hearted all at once. Rigid and relaxed within one body. A sculpted specimen of contradictions. In his presence, she can’t get anything out without worrying her words will sound ridiculous.

“Why did you choose to become a security expert?” she finally asks, unable to respond to the bomb he dropped.

She can tell he welcomes the change of subject. “Well,” he begins, eyes closing for a moment as he composes his narrative. “Let’s just say my family was very wealthy and very vulnerable to asshole hitmen. Let’s imagine me as a teenager being kidnapped. Let’s imagine my family being tortured by constant worries and threats. Let’s just say I was forced into this role and that I ended up being really great at it.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “That’s all you’re gonna give me?”

“For their safety, yes.”

She nods. “That’s fair.”

“Why did you join Helix?”

Her gaze darts up to his and the challenge she sees there is overwhelming. He wants the truth. He wants everything she can give him and, possibly, more.

She thinks back to her teenage rebellion. The dark clothes. The dark makeup. The anger and the misplaced blame. She recalls the alluring idea of taking everything away from people who make their living off of taking everything from others. She recalls the intoxicating feeling of pressing one button and exposing government secrets. And then, with even greater clarity, she recalls the moment they asked too much of her. Asked her to risk too much and asked her to give up too much.

She shakes her head. “It is very  _ very _ hard to explain.”

Oliver looks at his watch and then back towards the kitchen before turning to her with a smirk on his lips. “We have plenty of time.”

She sighs. “My mother was… not the best mother. Flighty. Self-centered. Hardworking but for the wrong reasons. As time went on, I resented her for a lot of things and that resentment turned into a monster. A goth-hacker-nerd-monster with a penchant for unsafe hacks and terrible taste in clothes. It didn’t take long to get recruited by them. They found me. They proved their insane knowledge and I jumped on board. Hook. Line. Sink her.”

“And what happened?” Oliver asks as the waiter brings their food. “What changed for you.”

“I found my dad,” she answers, stabbing her french toast with her fork. “Well, they allowed me to find my dad.”

They eat for a few minutes and then Oliver coaxes her more. “What does that mean?”

She swallows a bite and frowns. “They permitted me, without my knowledge, to locate my father within their database. I learned that he was a major player in some big-time cyber busts and soon Helix came to me with an offer.”

Oliver interrupts before she can elaborate. “Wait, how could they permit you without your knowledge?”

She takes a deep breath and plunges into her old world even more, recalling everything. The sensation of her fingers on the keyboard and eyes locked onto the screen, strings of senseless numbers scrolling by, evading her for only so long. The overwhelming feeling of successfully accessing what was supposed to be inaccessible. Her old addiction still residing within her, deep and buried.

“They had glimpsed my footprint in dozens of small-time hacks,” she finally answers as she swirls her fork through a puddle of maple syrup on her plate. “They tracked where those were leading and traced it to me and figured out what I was aiming for. They led me to their database.”

“Oh.”

_ This is  _ way  _ over his head,  _ she thinks, glancing at Oliver’s confused expression - the same expression her mother had always plastered on every single time Felicity tried explaining a new algorithm she had formulated. Blankness. Complete lack of understanding.

“So what did they offer?”

Felicity sighs. Old wounds. Old fears coupled with new fears. “I work for them and they wouldn’t report me to the authorities. And I quickly learned that was how they locked all of their members in.”

Oliver let out a little chuckle. “Blackmail is always the best way to force loyalty.”

“Until you ask too much of your loyal subjects,” Felicity adds, leveling Oliver with her stare. She can see his expression shift. “Even crazy teen hackers can have a moral code.”

“I didn’t say otherwise.”

“So they asked some things of me that I didn’t feel comfortable with, and I left. I said goodbye to my mother and disappeared for awhile, until I was discovered in some little bar in Hollywood by a record exec while singing  _ Sunday Morning _ , and the rest is history.”

She can see he wants more, and despite her promise to be honest with him, she’s unsure if she would divulge the full story even if he was willing to ask for it. Lucky for her, he remains silent and they just eat the rest of their meal, letting little bouts of conversation fill in awkward gaps.

They pay and then make their way out into the L.A. night air - smoggy and full of city sounds. The walk back to the bike is quiet and highlighted by their joined hands. Felicity sneaks glances at Oliver’s shadowed face, admiring new and old details, little revelations with each short study. Once they arrive at the bike, they slide on their helmets and then merge onto the road. Oliver directs the bike toward the looming coast - sea air so close she can quickly smell the saltiness tinging the gusts as they speed on.

She assumes they will stop at a well known beach, or at least somewhere less out of the way, but Oliver continues on, zooming onto an older coastal highway until he finally pulls into a small parking lot overlooking the massive blackness of roiling waves. She can hear them crashing, a rhythm she has enjoyed for so long. She used to have a white noise machine when she was a kid, and her favorite setting was the ocean waves. It blocked out the horrid desert winds that battered against their tiny Vegas house and reminded her of the world beyond the familiar neon lights and scorching heat. She still has the machine, tucked away in her closet somewhere with a lot of her childhood possessions. Kept safe. Kept hidden. Kept secret. She uses her phone or laptop now, but the sound remains the same.

Crashing waves.

Oliver pulls his helmet off and takes a deep breath, then turns toward her. Even in the dim light of the moon she can see the twinkle in his eye. “This might be a little terrifying,” he admits, pointing toward a path that seemingly drops off into nothingness.

“We’re going down there?” Felicity eyes the edge of the parking lot nervously, bottom lip clamped between her teeth.

He nods. “Adventure.”

“Adventure?”

He nods again. “Of course! I wasn’t gonna make a relaxing walk along the beach easy for you.”

“You’re taking relaxing right out of it.”

He shrugs. “Too scared?”

Felicity’s posture shifts from nervousness to feigned confidence. “Of course not! I’m sure it isn’t that bad!”

She is horribly wrong.

The path is only lit by the moon and transforms from a simple curved path to treacherous stairs without warning. Felicity’s heeled boots feel unstable with each step and she grips Oliver’s hand like a vice. It doesn’t take long for her to cast her boots aside and continue the trek barefoot. Oliver does the same.

After what seems an exhausting eternity, they reach the bottom. Her toes sink into the cooled sand and the roar of the waves overtakes her. She breathes deeply, sucking in as much fresh air as she can and then takes of running. She knows Oliver is following close behind but she doesn’t look back. She flanks the edge of the tide, feet dabbling in the water before it retreats back into itself. She feels free and alive. Nothing can take her or harm her or threaten her. She’s free.

After a while she tumbles to the sand and Oliver follows, his arms wrapping around her as they curl into one another until she’s resting atop him with one hand resting along his chest, just above his heart. He’s smiling and she’s smiling, and their pants from the run mingle as their faces inch closer.

“Now who took the relaxing right out of it?” Oliver teases.

She can almost feel the stubble surrounding his lips. “I wasn’t gonna make a walk along the beach easy for you.”

And then their lips meet.

It is a simple kiss - gentle and full of the protectiveness he has shown her since he arrived. It speaks all of their unspoken tensions and questions, the secrets they don’t share and the words they can’t articulate. It is simple yet complicated. Numerous contradictions all rolled into one touch.

They remain that way for a while. Lips moving in sync, hands exploring and their legs tangling together amidst the clinging sand - the waves offer background noise. A fire ignites within her and she quickly pulls away as an idea sprouts into her mind. She’s kept a level of her training a complete secret from him and she wants to expose it. The fire within her is begging for it… begging for what it might bring.

“We should get back,” she says, eyes hooded with the lust that threatens to overcome her plan.

Oliver looks disappointed.

She grins. “I can see you were hoping for some sort of  _ From Here To Eternity _ level beach intimacy, but I have something I need to show you back at the house.”

His brows rise at this but he jumps to his feet, then offers his hand. “As you wish,” he mumbles.

 

\---

 

He’s unsure what’s so important that she would break a kiss. A good kiss.  _ No. Great kiss.  _ But he obliges her and they speed toward the property, her hands grasped around his waist and helmeted head resting on his back. He can still feel her lips on his and taste them. She’s already an addiction.

They turn into the property and Oliver swipes a keycard - the latest installation of security measures he’s enforced - and the gates open, slowly with loud metallic groans and wails. They park in the garage and as soon as his helmet is off, she’s dragging him into the house, forceful despite her size. He can’t help it. He can’t stop it. He pulls her back, into him - against him - and then pushes her against the wall of the garage as the door closes, leaving them in darkness. His lips find hers instinctively, as if he’s been kissing them all his life, and they respond with a fervor equal to his own.

His hands wind their way into her hair at the same moment hers grip at the nape of his neck. Around their moving lips and swiping tongues, a breathy moan hits him from her delicate throat. Rhythmic. Angelic.  _ I’m going insane,  _ he thinks as he presses against her, their bodies rubbing insistently.

Felicity turns her head, lips parting from his but only slightly. “Oliver, I’m serious. I have something to show you.”

“Can’t it wait?” he begs, lips trailing down her jawline to her neck. He presses a few gentle kisses to her beating pulse which garner a sigh from her.

“ _ Oliver _ ,” she persists.

“Fine.” He steps away and points for her to lead the way. She takes his hand and pulls him further into the house until they reach the rehearsal hall. She switches on a few overhead lights and does a few little twirls deeper into the room. It is dim with the few lights and the shadows are intoxicating. She slips off her plaid shirt and kicks off her boots. The sight of the items pooling on the floor makes him swallow a massive nervous lump in his throat. “So, what do you have to show me?”

She grins. It is mischievous and sexy as all hell, causing his heart to slam against his chest and his palms begin to sweat. He feels foolish. Like a hormonal teenager unable to keep it together when a popular girl walks by him. But he watches her, transfixed, and can’t help but be astonished. She slowly slips her jeans down until all that’s left on her is her black tank top and a pair of barely there black panties. They hug her ass so perfectly, cheeks exposed just enough and low enough on the waist…  _ Keep it together,  _ he reminds himself. She turns away from him, still twirling, until she reaches the sound system. She presses play and one of her songs begins to play. She reaches behind the sound system and returns with a large object.

A long object. A familiar object.

A bo staff.

One of his staffs had gone missing shortly after his arrival but he hadn’t thought to ask her. But there it is, in her hands. She’s nearly naked holding a bo staff.

“What are you-”

His words are drowned out by the music but he doesn’t have to finish them anyway as she begins to dance. The staff is a prop in her hands and she uses it with such grace and adeptness that he might actually believe she’s proficient in its use as a weapon.

She spins and flips and sashays, each movement punctuated by the staff’s placement against the ground or against her body. It is mesmerizing and proves his addiction even more. He can’t look away. She gets closer to him, eyes locked and lips parted from exertion. Her tank slides down slightly as her breasts heave with each breath and movement. She ends the dance with a massive spin and maneuver of the bo staff that he’s left in shock, unsure how it had moved and flipped so perfectly without escaping her grasp.

The song ends and the room falls quiet. Her eyes have fallen to the floor and he can see the rosy flush to her cheeks. He can’t tell if the blush is from the exertion or some sort of embarrassment, but he adores the coloration - a brightness to her beauty that isn’t there but for moments of intensity. He waits for her with his heart hammering, waiting for her to speak, to act… anything.

But she doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. He takes a step forward but she shifts the bo staff horizontally in front of her, blocking her from his advance. It is defensive. It is what he’s taught her. “ _ Keep yourself away from an attack by placing something in their path to block their progress.”  _ He feels a slight edge of pride that she’s retained the knowledge he’s given her. But he is blocked from her, kept at arm's length, and it infuriates him. He takes another step, hands grasping the staff between hers, then pushes her back.

They move in sync, moving back toward the wall until her back presses there and the staff shifts from a defensive object to a capturing object. She’s caged in. Their eyes meet and the fire raging in her darkened eyes is enough to send him into a spiral of lust.

“You liked that?” she finally asks as her head tilts up toward his and her eyes linger on his lips.

“You have no idea,” he growls, crossing the short distance between them just as the bo staff falls from their hands, clattering to the floor at their feet.

Their lips crash together, fighting and dancing in an intense mixture of so many things. Trust. Lust. Insecurity. Every single little emotion he’s felt or lacked with her coalesce with the touch of their lips and his hands on her hips, tugging her closer. Their bodies meet and mold together - a perfect fit. His hands glide over her body, reaching around until they cup her ass and he squeezes. She moans against his mouth and sinks her hands below his shirt. Her nails dig into the skin, softly at first but then with a harshness that sends shivers down his spin.

He responds by sliding his fingers beneath the fabric of her panties, feeling the softness of her skin and the goosebumps his touch brings up. He squeezes her ass again, nails dig in slightly and the moan that escapes her lips, breathy against his own, is so much louder… so much sexier.

Her hands fall to his jeans and the button is unfastened in no time, followed by the zipper. The waistband droops and her hands trail around to the small of his back, the gentleness of her fingers sending identical goosebumps sprouting all along his skin. Her hips press against him and he’s lost. Within moments his shirt is removed and his pants are falling, leaving him exposed and tangled. He toes off his shoes, all the while keeping her pinned and his lips locked with hers, then steps out of his pants. His fingers toy with the lines of her panties, delicate against the curves of her body. He waits for a moment, lips hesitating against hers as he lightly tugs the fabric down just an inch. His eyes open to find hers wide and begging… almost pained. Then a gentle hum touches his mouth. “Yes,” she purrs.

His raw excitement spills over and he rips the thin fabric in his attempts at pulling it down. “Oops,” he murmurs, embarrassed.

“I have plenty,” she breathes out, dismissing the ruined fabric as it tumbles to the floor.

And then he moves swiftly, his hands falling to the back of her thighs, just below her cheeks and he parts her legs and lifts. She wraps her legs around his waist instinctively, tight and with more intensity than he is prepared for. Their bare skin, heated with longing, touch and a fire ignites them further. He presses her against the wall and lifts her arms up, showering kisses all along her neck and chest, tongue dancing out and beneath the line of her shirt at the tops of her breasts.

In moments her shirt is off. In moments his underwear is at his ankles. Somehow. Surprisingly.  _ Did I do that, or did she? _

Everything is a blur as their lips meet once more and their bodies press closer - impossibly closer - and it is a mess of heated flesh. Just for a moment, they do not move as they relish the closeness. The nearness of complete and total connection -  _ oneness _ . Near yet so far. So far yet so close.

And then his erection presses against her entrance, insistent and longing. The slightest touch draws out a moan from her lips and a tighter grip from her legs. “Please,” she whimpers.

He wastes no time. His hips thrust up and then his length is sinking into her, through her soft and warm walls until he can move no further. He luxuriates in each second that his cock is hugged by her body. He luxuriates in the heat and the wetness of her.

In no time they are sweating. Panting. Collapsed onto the floor, her on top and riding him hard and fast until nothing matters but the sensations. The warmth. The slickness. The moans from their lips. His hands reach and grasp her breasts, massaging until her nipples press into his palms in response. He can’t resist the feel of her… her body against his hands, fingertips grazing her skin and sending up goosebumps. He can’t resist the urge to sit up and wrap his arms around her body.

He rubs her back and kisses her neck as she continues her rhythm.

This is the woman he saw that first day. Every complicated emotion. Every stubborn impulse. That mystery of a woman laid bare. Everything unleashed upon him, leeching desire and lust and cravings out of him until, in a sudden burst of sensation, they are both crying out. Hands grasped tight against flesh, nails digging in. Lips brushing skin. Trembling. Dripping sweat.

And then they are in her bed. Somehow. Surprisingly. Cuddled under the sheets.  _ How did we get here? Did I lead the way, or did she? _

He’s not one hundred percent sure how they arrived in her room and her expensive bed, but he smiles. He kisses Felicity’s forehead and she hums contentedly against him before returning to her dreams. Peaceful. Free from stress and fears and everything the world insists on throwing at her. Safe in his arms.

Three little words sit on his tongue, longing to be spoken and dreaded all the same… but he drifts off to sleep instead, exhausted and hopeful for the morning and a time when he feels the courage to vocalize what he feels.

_ I love you. _

* * *

 

_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The concert they attend is one for The 1975. The melancholy song, depending on which one you prefer, is either Medicine or Fallingforyou. You can check out my entire playlist for this story [here.](https://open.spotify.com/user/12856345/playlist/1HaPMamPPjhbiPgBzxFBsZ?si=UARl8vjWQxWglsrk_OXdbw)
> 
> What did you think? Let me know in a comment!
> 
> Follow me -  
> twitter: @miss_writer  
> tumblr: @arrow-through-my-writers-block


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